An act of revenge
by trekfreak2008
Summary: Brutal murders in the dead of night lead to a fiasco in which Kirk, Spock and McCoy find themselves trapped.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek or Harry Potter. I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_Alright, firstly this is my first attempt at a serious story, and I intend to keep it serious. If the plot starts to go crazy and the characters are not portrayed right, I apologise now. Read at your own risk. Constructive criticism is appreciated._

Jack Watson, an unsuccessful lawyer wandered along the streets of London and wished, not for the first time, that he had a hover car that worked and that he went to a decent garage to get it fixed. Not only had the mechanic said that it would be weeks before they received any spare parts, he had also been unable to loan him a hire car. Jack sighed and miserably kicked an empty beer bottle, watching as it rolled out of reach of the street lights and was swallowed by the inky darkness of night.

At that precise moment the icy cold wind picked up and threw itself at him with a determined vengeance. He shivered and, clutching his briefcase close to his chest, dipped his head and carried on walking, not really seeing the pavement as he continued to think.

He wasn't really looking forward to going back to his flat; that much was certain, for he lived alone and although he had filled his home with furniture, belongings and always had it warm and brightly lit, it always felt cold and empty- lacking the warmth that only a family could bring. But above all else, there was a constant silence which only managed to remind him of all the things he was missing out on in life.

A sudden shuffling noise behind him caused him to look up and twist around defensively to see who was there. At first, he saw nothing, but the sudden flash of light on a wrist watch told him that someone was standing just outside his line of vision.

Nervously he shouted out, his voice barely audible above the howling wind. "Who's there?"

As if to answer his question, a figure stepped out of the shadows and glided towards him. The figure was wearing shapeless clothes and had a hood over his head, which cast a shadow over pale male features. There was an uncanny resemblance between this man and the image of a Dementor from 'Harry Potter', Jack decided.

The man stopped a few feet away from Jack, and then drew a long, curved knife from within the folds of his cloak. As soon as Jack saw the knife, every instinct screamed at him to run, but he found himself suddenly paralysed by fear.

The man raised the knife and brought it towards Jack, the light reflecting off the blade like a sinister star. Suddenly, Jack's paralysis lifted, and he ran. Then there was a sudden whistling sound, followed by a sickening thud as the knife flew through the air and embedded itself in the fleeing man's back.

For a moment, Jack Watson swayed on the spot, his eyes wide with disbelief as he felt the life and blood rushing out of him. Then in one last desperate attempt to escape, he tottered forwards and then collapsed to the floor, dead.

The figure calmly walked up to the corpse and tugged the handle of the knife, smiling slightly, amused by the simplicity of killing his victim. Wiping the smooth and bloody blade on an equally bloodied cloth, his eyes probed his surroundings, hunting for any potential witnesses. There were none. No-one would miss this man.

He dragged the body into the nearby bushes and then disappeared into the night once more.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_Alright, firstly this is my first attempt at a serious story, and I intend to keep it that way. If the plot starts to go crazy and the characters are not portrayed right, I apologise now. Constructive criticism is appreciated._

_Alright, here's the next chapter, I hope you like it... _

Doctor Leonard 'Bones' McCoy whistled cheerfully as he walked to the transporter room. Normally the idea of beaming down would have terrified him, but today was different. Today, he was going to start the first day of a whole month of shore leave, even if he had to spend it away from home.

Jim Kirk had managed to convince both him and Spock that seeing the sights would be much better than being trapped aboard the ship. McCoy had not been as easily convinced as the First Officer (who had been ordered to come), so in the end, Kirk had promised that he would not try to evade his physical or try to escape from Sick Bay as he had been known to do in the past. Hence McCoy's cheerful mood. Torturing Jim was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

The door to the room swished open and McCoy entered, still grinning like a cat that got the cream. Then he saw Spock and sighed in exasperation. McCoy hardly thought it possible, but Spock was standing in the middle of the room as if he was about to join a landing party. He was even carrying a tricorder.

"Spock." McCoy drawled, walking up to the Vulcan and pointedly looking him up and down. "When are you going to stop wearing your uniform on shore leave?"

Spock raised an eyebrow and allowed a barely noticeable sigh to escape him. "Doctor, shore leave officially begins when we beam down, and regulations state that…"

McCoy rolled his eyes, tuned out the rest of Spock's lecture and decided that the Vulcan was a lost case. The doors swished open once more, and this time Kirk strolled through dressed in shorts and a flowery t-shirt. McCoy's eyes practically popped out of his sockets at this bizarre fashion statement from the Captain.

Seeing his CMO's expression, Kirk grinned and looked down at what he was wearing. "What? I like it!" He said, lifting his chin up in mock defiance.

McCoy snorted. "You look like traffic lights!"

"I don't see a rule book anywhere that bans colourful clothes." He looked at McCoy, who was wearing jeans and a shirt. "At least I have imagination."

"What's wrong with dressing in jeans? It's better than uniform!" He glared pointedly at Spock who seemed completely oblivious to the insult."Alright then, let's go!" Kirk exclaimed, bouncing eagerly onto the transporter pad, followed by Spock and a reluctant McCoy.

As the whining of the transporters filled the room and the three felt the familiar tingling of the transporting process, McCoy muttered "Damn fool way to travel. Whoever invented this must've been an insane daredevil. Scrambling atoms…" Beside him, Kirk grinned at the familiar rant.

They materialised in a bustling street in London, startling a few passers-by who had been immersed in their activities, or had simply been to busy to look where they were going.

There was an ominous rumbling overhead, as the menacing grey clouds gathered in the sky. McCoy looked around and realised with some amusement that Kirk could not have picked a worse time to wear summer clothing.

Spock seemed to have noticed as well. "Captain..." Kirk glared at him. "Jim…" He amended. "It appears as though your decision to wear summer clothing was unwise." He looked up at the angry sky. Kirk followed his gaze.

At that very moment the heavens opened, and water droplets were soon bouncing off every surface that stood in their way. All down the street, umbrellas were being opened and coat collars were being turned up, yet some people seemed as equally unprepared as Kirk. They ran through the rain with briefcases held over their heads, and in one case, a laptop. The laptop owner soon regretted it however, as sparks began to shoot out of the sides of it. Spock raised his eyebrows.

"Highly illogical" he muttered.

The three officers ran through the rain, dodging those who got in the way with great difficulty, due to the amount of people on the streets. Eventually, they reached their hotel and darted inside where they stood in the entranceway, dripping wet.

"Good thing we decided to get our cases beamed down after us." Kirk commented as they walked to the reception, leaving wet footprints behind them.

The receptionist looked up from her paper work, and stared at them while chewing gum. "Yes?" She demanded in a bored voice.

Kirk cleared his throat and flashed one of his trademark smiles. "Uh, I have a reservation here, under the name of James T Kirk." His smile began to waver as the receptionist seemed completely unmoved by his charm.

She sighed irritably. "I'll have to confirm that, sir." She muttered, emphasising the 'sir'.

McCoy and Kirk exchanged looks as the receptionist called up the information on her mini computer.

"You have room number twelve. Have a nice stay." She grumpily handed Kirk the keys and went back to her paper work.

"Thanks…" Kirk said, once again flashing one of his trademark smiles, but she didn't seem to hear.

"Charming…" McCoy muttered under his breath.

"Fascinating…" Spock muttered equally as quietly. McCoy gave him an odd look.

They walked across the lavishly decorated lobby towards a lift, and took it to room twelve.

Kirk opened the door to the room and they stepped in. What they saw was one large and luxurious (if somewhat old fashioned) hotel room, their luggage which had been beamed down and three doors. One door lead into a bathroom and the other two lead to the neighbouring rooms. The other two rooms were the same, but without doors leading to the rooms next to them.

"Well, I call the room with the softest bed." McCoy said, disappearing through a door leading to room twelve-A.

"Well Spock that leaves you with room twelve-C since I want this room in the middle." Kirk said, shooing Spock out the door and starting to unpack.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek or Harry Potter. I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_Alright, firstly this is my first attempt at a serious story, and I intend to keep it that way. If the plot starts to go crazy and the characters are not portrayed right, I apologise now. Constructive criticism is appreciated._

_Here is the next chapter, I hope you all like it!_

The wind howled as the lightning tore a jagged bolt in the night sky. Coming to a grave yard in the middle of a thunderstorm probably wasn't the best idea in the world, but Heather's father and mother deserved their final respects. The first drops of rain dripped onto her head and gradually slithered down her neck and into the thin anorak.

It had happened a week ago; her parents had been coming home from their anniversary dinner. It was a dark night, and they were just coming out of a small lane that lead to a main road, when suddenly a forklift truck came round the corner and hit them. The police later said that the driver had been drunk while driving and didn't even have his headlights on. They had died instantly, both of them pierced through the heart by the steel forks of the truck. It was a bizarre tragedy to say the least.

Her thoughts were abruptly drawn back to the present by the howl of a wolf, and the fact that she was soaked to the skin and freezing. A single tear found its way down her cheek as she laid flowers on their graves. It wasn't fair, but life wasn't fair. Life was cruel. The ironic thing was that the driver wasn't even injured; in fact, he was still in a prison cell cooling down and pleading his case to the police.

She pulled the collar up higher around her neck and tucked her cold hands into the coat pockets. A faint rustling sound, barely audible over the noise of the storm, came from the bushes which were silhouetted against the full moon. A sudden bolt of lightning lit the bushes up, and to Heather's horror a man limped out from behind them.

He was soaked to the skin, dragged his left foot behind him, and his clothes were ripped. His face was a bloodless mask and his hair was plastered to his forehead. She half expected to turn round and see an empty grave that he had just crawled out of, but she found that she was too scared to move.

He made his way slowly, painfully, toward her, never breaking eye contact. All the while, her heart was beating an insane rhythm against her ribcage, threatening to burst. Eventually he stood before her, about two feet away. A cruel, twisted smile lit up his features, but it was a smile that never reached his eyes. They were eyes that had seen too much death and suffering; the eyes of a murderer. He put his hand in his pocket and drew something out which was lit up by another flash of lightening. In his hand was a five inch long knife with a wooden handle.

At that precise moment, she forgot her parents and just ran for her life. Ran, all the way out the gates, across the car park, through the lane where her parents had met their end so recently, and through her front door, slamming it shut behind her. In absolute panic, she ran through the house, locked all the doors and windows, barricaded herself in the bedroom, and piled furniture against the door and armed herself with the only weapon available: a hockey stick. It wasn't much, but the way he was moving, he shouldn't be very fast.

That theory was soon proven to be wrong.

A loud thumping came from the window, and to her horror, there he was. He was clinging to the drain pipe with one hand, and smashing his fist against the window pane with the other. His blue eyes still held that frenzied look, and the wind tearing at his clothes gave him a psychotic appearance.

Screaming, Heather leapt away from the window and backed away to the wall of the room. His hand smashed the glass, and his fingers slithered through the ragged gap, feeling their way to the window lock like a bug's antennae.

Heather didn't wait to see what happened next. She flung herself at the door and began pulling away all the furniture, in a vain attempt to get to safety.

Just as she was frantically tugging at the door which had gotten stuck in place, a damp hand slammed down onto her shoulder. A terrified scream echoed around the room, and he smiled sadistically.

She looked down at the blood soaked hand in terror, and then up into the face of the killer. He sneered in a way that made her gut wrench, and then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his knife, and drew back his hand.

Lightening flashed and illuminated the blade as he brought it up towards her throat in one swift motion. She struggled and screamed, but he had her pinned against the door, and there was nothing she could do.

Her hysterical scream pierced the night air as the blade tore into her skin, sending jets of her crimson blood spraying onto the wall. The man slowly pulled the soaked blade out of her throat and stepped back. The girl slid down the wall clutching her throat in a futile effort to hold together the flaps of skin over the severed artery. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, she twitched once as her last breath ebbed out of her, and lay still.

The man smiled slowly and evilly. His second victim was now taken care of, and he began to wipe his bloodied knife on her own clothes. This kill was much easier than the last, he thought as he remembered how the victim had stabbed his foot with his own knife. He looked down at his foot, which was bleeding through the shoe again from the exertion. He ripped off one of the dead girl's sheets from the bed and wrapped it around his wound.

Then he looked around the room to see if there was anything worth stealing, and finding nothing he limped over to the window and climbed out of it, already intending to hunt down his next victim.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_Alright, firstly this is my first attempt at a serious story, and I intend to keep it that way. If the plot starts to go crazy and the characters are not portrayed right, I apologise now. Constructive criticism is appreciated._

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The morning light struggled to make itself seen through the heavy storm clouds that still hung in the sky. It was still raining and the sound of the water droplets hitting the window pane was what eventually woke up Kirk.

He sat up in his bed and pulled back the curtains. Below him, people were going about their daily routine, despite the rain and the wind. He was grateful that he was on holiday and was free to spend his time indoors if the weather wasn't suitable. He thought glumly about his summer clothes which he had packed away in the hotel wardrobe. This was supposed to be summer time, and he wasn't prepared for the possibility of rain. He mentally kicked himself and sighed.

He looked at the old fashioned clock on the wall across the room from him and decided that it was probably time to get up and get dressed. Grinning, he began to plan where he would take Spock and McCoy first.

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Two hours later Kirk, Spock and McCoy sat in Kirk's room, discussing their plans for the day. Well, that is how Kirk described the scene, since what he decided would eventually be what they would do… when he got McCoy to co-operate.

"I'm not going to Kensington Gardens in the rain! Dammit Jim, have you gone mad?!" McCoy argued, jabbing his finger fiercely at the window. "Look outside! It's not exactly rays of sunshine!"

Jim sighed. "Bones, it will probably clear up. _Then_ we can go."

"But look at it! It's going to be raining for hours, and if I know you, then you'll probably get bored waiting and drag us out anyway!"

Kirk tried not to look guilty. McCoy knew him too well.

"Captain…" Spock began. Kirk sighed in irritation. "Jim…" Spock amended. "I suggest that we watch the weather forecast."

McCoy opened his mouth to object, but Kirk silenced him with a look. The next few minutes were spent hunting around the room for the remote, as this was a television make from the 21st century, and was not yet equipped with voice activation.

Once they got the television on, McCoy slammed his fist down on the top in an attempt to bring the picture into focus.

"What a hunk of junk!" He shouted in frustration. "Who's stupid idea was it to have antique TVs in a modern hotel?!"

Spock quietly and calmly changed the channel. The picture cleared up instantly. McCoy stared at him.

"How did you do that?"

Spock opened his mouth and assumed what McCoy had dubbed as his 'lecture stance'. McCoy held up his hand. "Forget it. I think I'd die of old age if you start another one of your scientific lectures filled with mumbo jumbo."

Spock raised an indignant eyebrow. "I do not 'lecture', nor do I use 'mumbo jumbo' as you call it. I simply endeavour to give a complete report on my methods, explaining how I achieve…"

"Look, Spock! Spock!" McCoy shouted over the Vulcan. "I'm not in the mood. Let's just watch the news."

"I was merely answering your question, which was in itself a pointless exercise as you did not appear to want to listen to the answer. I have never understood the human habit of ignoring that which may help them. I find it highly illogical."

"And I find you highly irritating. Now will you just shut up so we can hear the news?!" McCoy retorted angrily.

For a moment, Spock looked as though he was about to argue, but the violent expression on McCoy's face seemed to put him off, and he fell silent.

The music signalling the start of the news died down, and a woman appeared on screen, sitting behind the anchor desk.

"Our top news tonight; there have been three murders in the past two days, all of them in the London area. Abigail Cole reports."

There was a change of scene and instead of the studio, there was a reporter standing in front of a police station.

"In the last two days, three people have been murdered, and all three of them lived in the same area; Knightsbridge. Each of them was attacked by an unknown assailant and were left to bleed to death. In each case there were no witnesses. Jack Watson" a picture of a dishevelled looking man in a suit appeared on screen "was attacked as he was walking home from work just two days ago. Doctors report that he bled to death after being stabbed in the back by a knife. No weapon was found. Edith Carlson, the second victim, was stabbed twelve times in her home in the dead of night, and Heather Cooke was also stabbed in her home. The two lived just two streets away from each other." The pictures of both women appeared on screen.

The reporter turned to a policeman who was standing by her side. "Sergeant Taylor, was there anything to give you a lead to the killer?"

The Sergeant shook his head. "There were no known witnesses and no murder weapon was found. We are still looking for clues and we encourage those with knowledge of the murders to come forward. It is our belief the murderer will strike again."

Abigail nodded. "Well thank you Sergeant Taylor." She turned back towards the camera. "Back to you in the studio."

Once again, the anchorwoman was shown on screen. "Thank you Abigail. Our next top story…" The newsreader talked on, but Kirk, Spock and McCoy weren't listening.

They were all trying to remember where they had heard of this type of murder before.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek . I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_This is my first attempt at a serious story, and I intend to keep it that way. If the plot starts to go crazy and the characters are not portrayed right, I apologise now. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Hope you enjoy it; here is the next chapter!!_

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Retired Police Investigator John Grayson switched off the news report and leaned back in his armchair beside the fire. There was something about this case that reminded him of both ancient earth history and a past case of his, but it was all too far away to remember.

He shrugged it off after a few minutes of thought and walked into his kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.

A dark figure emerged from its hiding place in the cupboard beneath the stairs and followed him into the kitchen, closing the door quietly behind them.

John Grayson twisted around at the sound of the door clicking shut and stared at the figure in complete disbelief. The figure limped forward and his blue eyes glittered with a frenzy and hatred that Grayson thought he would never have to encounter.

"You!" Grayson stuttered, but before he could say more, the attacker was upon him.

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The telephone at the reception of the hotel rang, and the receptionist sighed and flung down her magazine. She picked up the receiver impatiently.

"Yes?" She hissed. She paused for a few moments as the person on the other end spoke. Then she said "I will get him for you." She laid the receiver down none to gently on the table and flounced off to room number twelve-C.

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There was a soft knock at the door, soon followed by the angry entrance of the receptionist. Kirk stared at her.

"Uh, yes?" He asked her; annoyed that she hadn't waited for him to open the door.

"How am I supposed to find you people if you keep hopping from room to room?" The receptionist asked.

"What do you mean?" Kirk asked, confused.

"Well, it makes my job easier if you stay in once place, that's all! How am I supposed to deliver a message if I don't know where anyone is?"

Both Kirk and McCoy looked like they were about to argue with the mouthy receptionist, so Spock decided to intervene. "What is your message?"

The receptionist looked him up and down. "Are you Mr Spock?"

"Yes."

"There's someone on the phone for you down in the lobby. They said it was urgent."

Spock nodded, slightly confused. "Thank you." He turned to Kirk and McCoy. "Excuse me." He said, ever polite, before following the receptionist out of the room.

"They'd make a good pair; Spock's got no idea how to be rude, and she's got no idea how to be polite!" McCoy remarked, his blue eyes sparkling with unspoken mischief.

Kirk stared at him, and then started laughing. "Bones!"

"Well, you know what they say; opposites attract!" McCoy said through a fit of giggles.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek . I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_This is my first attempt at a serious story, and I intend to keep it that way. If the plot starts to go crazy and the characters are not portrayed right, I apologise now. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but flames will be ignored..._

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Just a few hours after Spock's phone call the trio found themselves immersed in a life or death situation full of questions, and the only one who could provide any answers was rapidly losing his hold on life.

John Grayson, grandfather of Spock, lay on a diagnostic bed, as pale as a ghost. He had been wheeled in moments before for knife wound related injuries, and was not expected to survive the night.

Spock stood at the foot of John's bed, unsure of what to do. On the one hand, he felt this overwhelming urge to comfort his grandfather as he faced an agonising death, but his Vulcan heritage caused him to deny his feelings. His dilemma was solved, however, when John finally beckoned him to sit in the chair beside the bed.

"Spock." The older man wheezed. "I don't have much time. There's something I need to tell you." He broke off in a coughing fit which racked his whole body and showed that he was clearly in the final throes of death. The heart monitor beeped ominously.

"Come closer" He finally whispered, unable to summon the energy to speak louder.

Obediently, Spock moved closer, his Vulcan control the only thing that kept him from revealing his overwhelming emotions.

"These murders… They've happened before." John slurred.

Under different circumstances, Spock would simply have raised an eyebrow and dismissed this as an illogical comment. Instead, he leaned further forwards.

"I do not understand" Spock said softly, aware that John's time was growing short.

"50 years ago… the case ... of the... London…" John's mouth opened and closed as he struggled to verbalise the rest of his message, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he went into full cardiac arrest.

All three visitors were ordered out of the room while the medics persisted in their futile attempts to keep him alive.

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A silent figure moved swiftly and confidently through the corridors of the hospital, lowering their head when their path took them directly past Kirk, Spock and McCoy. It was essential that no-one recognised them.

Several more determined paces brought the figure to a door a few meters from John Grayson's room. The name on the door said "Seamus Finnegan". The figure slowly opened the door and crept inside.

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Kirk was pacing up and down the hospital corridor in deep thought while Spock and McCoy had gone to fill out some medical forms. Suddenly looking up, he saw the nameplate with the name "Seamus Finnegan" and was about to walk through the door when someone else walked out.

Muttering an apology and looking up briefly, he wandered vaguely where he had seen that face before. The man stared back for a moment and then turned away to walk down the corridor.

Mentally shrugging, Kirk opened the door to Finnegan's room, walked in and was instantly met with a nightmare.

Finnegan was laying motion less on his hospital bed, surrounded by his own blood. Above his head, an alarm was flashing and the steady thud of footsteps told Kirk that medics would be arriving at any moment. And he was alone, in a room, with a corpse.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek . I am merely writing this for enjoyment.

_Okay guys, here is the next chapter. It's a bit longer to make up for the two short ones, so I hope you like it._

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Sergeant James Mulligan banged his fist down on the table, hard. He was disappointed when the man sitting at the table did not flinch.

"I will ask you again Kirk, and this time I want the truth; why did you murder Seamus Finnegan?"

Kirk shook his head, leaned forward and looked the middle aged Sergeant in the eye. Speaking slowly and pronouncing each word slowly, he said "I did not do it."

Mulligan rolled his eyes in frustration and tried desperately to keep from completely losing his temper. In the room behind him, through a one way window his colleagues were watching the interrogation, and he hardly wanted to be seen losing control, especially when the conversation was being recorded. It was unprofessional.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to ignore the beginnings of a stress related headache, Mulligan paced the room for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

Turning back to Kirk he demanded "Why did you do it? Why did you murder a man that you had not seen since the Academy?" However, a possible motive occurred to him the second he asked this question.

Kirk must have seen it in his eyes because he leaned forwards and said with a self control that Mulligan envied "Sergeant, I have forgiven him for what he did to me in the Academy." He shrugged. "He may have beaten me up regularly but it doesn't give me an incentive to kill him."

Mulligan's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took in the features of the renowned star ship captain.

Kirk was now leaning back in his chair, seemingly calm and collected but his eyes were assessing the room with an experience born of breaking out of numerous buildings all over the galaxy. If anything, his calm seemed to make Mulligan even less inclined to believe him.

He briefly remembered a conversation with a psychiatrist at the hospital after the last homicide case. The man had told him that serial killers often adopted the "mask of sanity" which enabled them to appear normal and even charming to those around them. Could Kirk's notorious charm have been mistaken for this in the past?

His colleagues did not share his conviction that Kirk was guilty; the captain's reputation was too strong and positive for them to think past the incredible diplomacy missions and those that had protected the galaxy; such as destroying enemy ships that had posed a threat. However, the evidence was against him and that forced them to acknowledge the fact that from an investigational point of view, the man was guilty, despite his claims of the opposite.

In fact, Mulligan was the only one that seemed keen to imprison the charismatic captain. None of his colleagues could figure out why, but the reason was simple.

Mulligan was jealous of Kirk. He had once dreamed of being in space just like every other boy growing up at the time, and he had raced to apply to the Academy when he came of age. It had broken his heart when they had rejected him and he had decided to go for his reserve choice; police work.

To him, Kirk's glory seemed undeserved and he was bitterly jealous. _He_ should have been the one travelling the galaxy and making a name for himself, but instead he was shut up in some office interrogating clients every day of his life.

Aware that his thoughts were becoming unprofessional, he returned his attention back to what he was supposed to be doing. He walked over to a drawer in the far corner of the room and opened it. Rummaging round inside he soon found what he was looking for and brought it back to Kirk; all but slamming it onto the desk in his anger.

"Do you recognise this?"

Kirk studied the dagger and belatedly realised that it was the one that Finnegan had been stabbed with.

"It's not mine."

Mulligan sighed and tried to control his frustration. Interrogating people was always so difficult. "That wasn't the question. I asked you if you recognised it."

Kirk sighed, knowing he was beaten. Mulligan knew he had recognised it because his fingerprints were all over it. His mind drifted back to the moments after he walked in the room of Finnegan.

_The sight of Finnegan lying on his bed with his throat and wrists slit was too much for him, and he looked away. His eyes caught the blue jumper lying on the floor and without waiting to consider the consequences, he walked over to it._

_He picked it up and was surprised when a weapon fell into his hands; a bloody dagger, five inches long. He swore, realising what had happened and that his fingerprints were now all over the murder weapon. _

_He looked around in panic, realising that it was hopeless to try to hide or dispose of the weapon because that would increase his guilt. _

_The door slammed open and policemen filed in, one of them taking the dagger from him with gloved hands, another slamming him against a wall and wrenching his arms behind his back. _

_He heard a metallic click and realised that they had been cuffed in place. He was led from the room and through the hospital, barely seeing anything and the words making no sense as the officer that had cuffed him spoke about his rights. _

_He could see all the accusing and shocked faces around him as he walked step by tortuous step to the police car waiting outside; its lights flashing. Spock and McCoy suddenly entered his line of sight. _

_McCoy was swearing and would have been punching the police officers in the face if Spock hadn't been holding him back with a grim expression. Their eyes met for a split second and Kirk saw the confusion and anger he felt mirrored in the Vulcan's eyes, although his face remained calm and unemotional. _

_A few seconds later, he was being bundled into the police car and the door slammed, locking away the outside world from him and the car sped off, distancing himself from his friends and the only chance he had of escape. _

Back in the present, Kirk sighed. "Yes." He whispered. "Yes I do recognise it."

Mulligan triumphantly spun to the mirror behind him and gave it the thumbs up, indicating that he had all the evidence he needed. As far as he was concerned, Kirk had just confessed.

With that, Mulligan walked out, leaving Kirk alone at the desk. Kirk briefly considered yelling after the Sergeant that he wasn't guilty, but knew that it would do little good. Instead, he stared at the desk morosely.

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"I just can't believe that Jim would _do_ something like that! I _won't_ believe it!" McCoy ranted, pacing up and down in the hotel room. "It's completely impossible!"

Spock merely sat on the bed, completely unfazed by the Doctor's impassioned speech.

"He's been framed. Spock, we have to help him!" No reply came. McCoy turned round to stare at the Vulcan, who appeared to be in deep thought. "Spock, did you hear what I said?"

"Yes Doctor."

"Well say something dammit!" McCoy fumed.

The expected eyebrow rose. "What would you have me say?"

McCoy sighed and sank onto Jim's bed, feeling utterly useless. "What are we going to do?"

Spock stood up and walked over to a nearby computer terminal. "We are going to solve the case."

McCoy threw his hands up in the air. "Oh well when you put it that way, how can we fail?" He spat sarcastically. "Let's just forget the fact that a whole police force has evidence to convict Jim, and they'd never believe us anyway."

Spock didn't even look up as he said "Doctor, control yourself."

McCoy began pacing again. "Killed with a dagger." He muttered angrily. "Damn ironic thing to happen in a hospital, and Jim had the timing to get mixed up in it…"

"Doctor."

McCoy looked up and walked over to the computer where Spock was now sitting. He glanced from Spock to the screen then back again.

"Spock, all of these killers were convicted 50 years ago."

Spock nodded. "Exactly. My Grandfather was attempting to warn us about something that happened fifty years ago." For a moment Spock's eyes filled with sadness, but it was gone so fast that McCoy thought he had imagined it. "I am attempting to find it."

"Spock, that'll take you ages."

"It is necessary."

For a few minutes there was silence, then another thought dawned on McCoy. "Spock… does this remind you of something? This case is remarkably similar to the one on Argelius… Scotty was nearly convicted for something he didn't do…"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, the thought had occurred to me."

"What if there were other entities beside the one we found, and one of them was responsible for this?" McCoy asked; panic suddenly pulsing through his veins.

Spock considered for a moment and then shook his head. "It is possible. However, I consider it unlikely…" He trailed off, suddenly turning back to the computer and once again sifted through the mass of information.

McCoy waited patiently, watching in amazement as Spock's fingers flew over the keyboard and the words on the page blurred faster than any human eye could read.

Finally, Spock eliminated all cases but one. McCoy leaned forward to read over the Vulcan's shoulder. Before him was an old police report; the title of which immediately caught his attention.

"The London Executioner?" McCoy asked, turning to Spock.

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	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek. I am merely writing this for enjoyment._

_Ok guys, here is the next chapter! I hope it explains some things. _

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Two armed prison officers escorted Kirk down the corridors of the police station where Kirk was to be held until his trial and he was proven guilty. Both officers admired the captain, but they did not dare show it in case it would be taken advantage of. They had been trained to appear tough and emotional at all times because there had been a case in the past where a dangerous convict had escaped by using charisma alone.

Kirk walked in between the two guards, his head held high and his gait deceptively calm and apathetic. Inside though, he was seething. Someone had framed him, he was sure, and this person would use Kirk being in prison to their advantage. He had to find a way to talk to Spock and McCoy without anyone else overhearing the conversation, but in his heart of hearts he knew that it just wouldn't happen. The police had become very thorough when it came to visitors. There had been too many mistakes in the past.

Kirk stopped at a locked door and waited for the guard to open it, watching out the corner of his eye for a chance to escape. He sighed; this wasn't your average locked door, it had built in security measures that meant that you needed to have the correct level of clearance to open it. Not to mention the correct DNA. Anyone who tried to open this door without authorisation would immediately set off an alarm. There was no chance of escape.

The guard on his left, a tall thickset man with black hair and crooked teeth motioned for him to go through the door. Kirk squared his shoulders and walked in.

The inmates in the prison cells were all there for petty crimes, and would be released soon, unlike Kirk who would probably be spending much of the foreseeable future in prison.

The prisoners all turned to stare at him, and after the split second of silence that it took for them to recognise him; the room was filled with noise.

The man in the first cell was short with a pot belly, and he came and pressed himself against the bars that kept him held in the small square room.

"Hey!" He yelled drunkenly. "You're Cap'n Kirk ain't ya? What you doin' here boy? This here ain't no place for celebrities."

Kirk's jaw tightened and he turned his gaze away from the man, determined not to answer any of their questions. He just didn't want to talk about it, and getting in a fight wouldn't exactly help his case anyway.

A middle aged lady in the cell opposite the drunkard joined in. "Yeah, wotcha do, kill somebody?!" She started laughing raucously at her own joke, her voice a high pitched screech.

A muscle in Kirk's jaw twitched, and he carried on walking after a guard prodded him in the back with their gun. He passed a cell with a calm looking man sitting on a bunk. The man looked up and stared at Kirk unblinkingly, his eyes full of curiosity.

The guard opened the door of the cell next to the man and the other guard shoved him in roughly. The metal door rattled as they slammed it shut again.

The guards walked off, beating the cell doors as they went to make the prisoners stand away from the bars. Then the outer door closed with a heavy clang. As soon as the guards were gone, the prisoners returned to the bars of the cell doors and resumed staring at him and asking questions. One even passed him a piece of toilet roll and begged him to sign it for his children, who were great fans of his.

"Please just sign it. They'd love to see it, been waiting their whole lives to see the great captain Kirk!" The man babbled.

Another man shouted from across the corridor. "Hey man, don't sign it. Larry there's been arrested on suspicion of fraud." He grinned. "But if you were interested in buying a watch, I got a couple of beauties right here that the guards missed…"

Kirk sighed and turned his back on all of them, walking round and round his cell like a caged animal. Eventually he got tired of walking in circles and sat down.

The relentless bombardment from the other prisoners continued, and the man in the cell next to him continued to stare.

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In the mess hall, Mulligan was sitting at a table and talking to three of his friends. He never got tired of boasting on how he got the 'great Captain Kirk' to confess.

"And then he just said it. Confessed, just like that!" Mulligan clicked his fingers to emphasise his point.

A tall, skinny police officer seated across the table from him spoke up. "That's great James, but I don't like it."

"What are you talking about? I just caught the biggest mass murderer in fifty years! What is there not to like about it?"

A beautiful blonde woman sat next to the skinny officer leaned forwards and stabbed the table with her finger angrily. "This is James T Kirk! I just don't think he's capable of it! The media shows him as…"

"Oh come on Sally! The media lies; you know that as well as I do!" Mulligan interrupted.

The skinny officer jumped back in. "All she's saying is it's unlikely."

Mulligan waved his fork at him. "Zach, we have evidence."

A red headed police officer next to Mulligan chimed in. "Yup, and pretty solid evidence to. You did good James." The two held their coffee cups together in a toast.

"Come on James, Mike!" Sally sighed, frustrated. "Think about it for a second. Don't you think that Kirk would have put more into his plan if he did murder all those people? It just seems a bit… different to how I would have thought he would have done it."

Mulligan almost spat out the coffee he had been drinking. "No, I don't! We have the evidence, and I'm making sure it sticks!"

"Yeah." Mike almost chuckled as a though occurred to him. "Even the most clever of criminals get careless eventually."

"That's not always the case." Zach countered. "The real killer might still be out there."

Mulligan sat back and stared incredulously. "Would you both just listen to yourselves? The 'real' killer?" He scoffed. "You're both intelligent cops, so how can you possible believe that?"

"I'd rather believe that than convict Kirk." Sally said fiercely, walking off and dumping her empty lunch tray in the bin as she left. Zach followed her.

Mulligan shook his head. Mike laughed at his friend's expression.

"Hey, come on James. Those two are like that every time you catch someone. They're prone to feeling sympathy for criminals. Like a couple of kids."

Mulligan looked at him and they both laughed.

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"The London Executioner?" McCoy repeated, surprise and disbelief still evident in his voice. "What has that got to do with anything?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "You do not remember this case?"

McCoy threw his hands up in the air. "That's exactly what I'm saying!" His eyes narrowed. "Why? What's so special about it?"

"The London Executioner was a mass murderer. In five years, he murdered 200 people until he was captured by a top investigational team. He was convicted of his crimes a year after he was caught and sentenced to death by lethal injection."

"And you think this is somehow linked with Jim being framed?"

"I admit that I do not understand why Jim was framed, but I do believe I understand why the murders are taking place." Spock said slowly.

"Well?" McCoy demanded, his concern for Kirk making him impatient.

"The investigational team consisted of four people; Samuel Watson, Bethany Carlson, Ben Cooke and John Grayson. My grandfather was the only remaining survivor of the team, and as you are aware, he was murdered with a knife as the weapon. The others died under different assignments, but their descendants survived. It is their descendents that have been murdered recently."

McCoy took a moment to process this. "So you think that this is an act of revenge. What about Finnegan's death? Did the killer murder him to frame Jim?"

"Unknown. I have not been able to think of a logical reason for the death of Finnegan."

"When is death ever logical?" McCoy asked rhetorically. He stayed slumped in the chair for a moment and then sat up straight. "So you said we're going to solve the case, I take it that means visiting Jim?"

Spock nodded. "Indeed."

The two of them walked out the room and went to hire a hover car they could use to visit the prison, since it was a few miles away and neither man wanted to use public transport.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek._**

_Here is the next chapter! I'm sorry that it took so long to upload, but I had a lot of trouble coming up with something to write. (which is why it's so short.) Writer's block, I guess... _

_Anyway, I'll try to make it up to you by doing a longer chapter next time, although I don't exactly know where this is going, so I won't hold my breath. Anyways... I hope you like this chapter, and feel free to yell at me for its shortness! Flames will be fed to the fire. _

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Zachary Carlisle trudged grimly through the muddy ground of the grassy area near the London eye. In the dark, all was quiet and the lack of people left him feeling exposed, vulnerable. He remembered what his father had always told him; never walk home alone in the dark if you want to remain safe.

Shivering at the light breeze and the expectation of more rain, he looked up at the Eye, managing to take small comfort in the fact that this was the only thing watching over him.

Looking down again, he barely managed to avoid tripping over the edge of a pavement which had not been highlighted by the dying lamplight. He jumped slightly at the sound of something clattering just behind him.

Turning around, he scanned the area for whatever caused the sound but was unable to see anything in the dark. Thoughts began to occur to him which caused his heart to beat a crazy rhythm against his ribcage, almost as if it were trying to jump out of his body.

Dismissing the idea of being followed, he carried on walking but found himself unable to prevent himself from twitching and starting at every small sound. The sooner he got home the better.

In an effort to distract himself, he began thinking of what he would do when he got home. He supposed his father would be worried about him, and he felt a flash of guilt for what he must be going through now, pacing the living room and looking at the clock, hoping that the next time the doorbell rang it would be his son arriving safely. He also thought of Rachel, the one who gave him the strength to get through each day when his heart felt as though he could no longer go on. She was the only one aside from his father who appreciated him for who he really was.

His spirits lifted at the thought of her and he began to feel as though he were walking on air instead of mud. Everything around him became slightly lighter at the thought of her, and suddenly he forgot about the notion of being followed. That was his mistake.

In the split second that he dismissed those thoughts, something pounced on him from behind. Yelling for help, he belatedly remembered that it would be useless; people would be too scared to see what was going on.

In desperation, he jerked his head back, catching the assailant in the teeth and causing his hold to loosen. A split second after this, he bent double, hearing an exhalation of air as he caught the person in the stomach. The grip loosened even more.

He stamped his foot down, but was dismayed when it came into contact with muddy ground rather than the feet of the attacker. This time, they had been one step ahead.

The grip tightened again, cutting off his air supply. As he fought for each breath and felt his fingers slipping from the attacker's arm, he thought of Rachel, and felt a brief spark of hope.

He flailed out, hoping to knock out whoever was doing this, but succeeded only in severely pummelling the air. The grip tightened and his call for help became a hoarse croaking sound.

The darkness around him became darker, and began edging in from all sides, threatening to claim him. As his vision gave out, he saw what appeared to be an angel running towards him, their robes flowing behind them as they ran with supernatural speed.

He felt a searing pain in his throat and wrists, and watched with clinical fascination as his life blood poured onto the floor. Sucking in a deep breath he realised that his attacker had loosened the grip and run off towards the angel.

The last thing he saw was the angel and attacker brutally fighting under the full moon.

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All around the country, a television broadcast for the evening news carried a grim message.

"Last night, it was reported by a citizen who wishes to remain nameless that there was a disturbance in the grassy area near the London eye. Police were called out and arrived on scene to discover two victims of what appeared to be a brutal attack by a serial killer which is rapidly becoming known for their killings performed in the style of the 'London Executioner', who was jailed 50 years ago.

Police medics did everything they could for their patients, but neither survived. Zachary Carlisle died from cuts to the throat and wrist, while William Murdock, the second victim, died on scene. Murdock was found a few yards from Carlisle, and police have determined that he had heard the commotion and gone to help, despite still being dressed in a white dressing gown.

Police are still investigating in the hope of finding more clues to these murders."


	10. Chapter 10

_Firstly, I am really, really sorry that this has taken so long to update, since I have been kind of busy with school work at the moment. Also, thankyou to everyone who has read this story so far, and feel free to tell me off for any out-of-character-ness, since that is not my strong point. However, flames will be fed to the fire..._

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McCoy paced the room angrily, waiting to be led into the room set aside for visitors to talk to prisoners, while Spock sat calmly on one of the chairs. So far today, everyone had been unhelpful. They had asked time and time again to see Kirk, but the officers had either claimed they had to wait for visiting hours or had passed them on to their superiors, who seemed unwilling to allow them to visit. Probably because they were renowned for their dramatic escapes, he thought wryly.

Eventually, a policeman came and led them to a cell. Inside was a table with Kirk sitting on one side and two chairs on the other. Armed policemen were standing at each corner of the room. It looked more like an interrogation room.

Wordlessly, McCoy took his place on the left and waited until Spock sat next to him before he started speaking. He had to find a way to tell Kirk their intentions without the guards hearing.

Before he did that though, he took the opportunity to look at Kirk to see how he was handling the situation. Sitting across the table from him was the friend he had always known, yet he had changed somehow. Instead of his usual calm self, there was an underlying sense of tension, showing that the Captain was automatically assessing his hopes of escaping the prison. Kirk smiled at his friends, but his eyes were pleading with them to get him out of there, to clear his name. McCoy felt his heart going out to him; he knew how much Kirk hated to be locked away, helpless.

Aware that they were being watched by the guards, McCoy smiled back at his Captain. The conversation proceeded haltingly, with McCoy scrutinizing Kirk for any clues as to how the Captain's time was in jail. Eventually, Kirk noticed and simply told him about it.

"Did you give that man your autograph?" McCoy asked with some amusement evident in his voice.

Kirk sighed wearily, as if he'd had to explain his reasons many times, probably to the one who wanted his signature in the first place.

"No." Was the only reply McCoy received.

They sat in silence for a while before Kirk suddenly started coughing for no apparent reason. Alarmed, McCoy jumped to his feet to help, part of him wondering whether this coughing fit was genuine or Kirk's last-ditch attempt at a distraction worthy of escape.

The guards seemed to have had the same idea. They became even more rigid and tense, either staring right at the three some or straight ahead, ready for any possible escape attempts.

Spock reached Kirk first and started thumping him on the back, taking great care not to break his friend's ribs with his superior strength. Eventually, Kirk stopped coughing and sat back, breathing heavily. Spock's hand lingered on Kirk's arm in what came across as a concerned gesture.

"Captain, are you recovered?" Spock asked softly. McCoy blinked. Spock was acting out of character that was for sure.

Kirk nodded. "I'm fine Spock." He looked up and for a brief moment they were both silent. After a slight pause, Kirk muttered "thanks" in a serious tone. Yet there was some sort of underlying emotion; concern? Stubbornness? It was difficult to be sure.

The guards relaxed again, but only slightly. Realising that McCoy was still standing and was wearing a somewhat shocked expression on his face, he sat down slowly, puzzling over what he had just seen.

"Have you heard from the rest of the crew?" Kirk's voice made him jump.

McCoy grinned. "Yeah, Scotty's not exactly pleased with the quality of the Scotch around here. Apparently it's worse than the replicator's."

Kirk winced, a slight smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "That bad?"

The conversation moved onto more mundane things, and McCoy responded where appropriate, wondering how Kirk could act as though he were simply sitting round a dinner table rather than in prison and being faced with a murder trial.

One of the guards stepped forward. "Time's up."

Startled, McCoy looked at the clock and saw to his dismay that they had been talking with Kirk for at least half an hour, but most of which had been spent in either an awkward silence or stilted conversation about trivial things. It was only to be expected, however, because the one thing on everyone's mind was Kirk's trial and finding the real killer, but this could hardly be talked of in front of police. If this search was to be a success it had to remain a secret. It would not help for the police to be tracking their every move, which they would almost certainly do if they knew what was planned.

Clambering to his feet, he took one last look at Kirk and then walked out the door, feeling as though he had just abandoned his best friend. His shoulders slumping, he walked back with Spock to the air car.

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Kirk watched his friends leave, and felt concern and to his surprise, anger building up inside him.

Halfway through the conversation, Kirk had sensed that both Spock and McCoy had something much more important to tell him, but their words gave nothing away. In actual fact, it was the look in their eyes.

Finally deciding on a course of action, he had started a coughing fit, knowing that Spock would be the first to react and that he would somehow manage to get the message to him using this as a distraction.

Sure enough, when Spock had touched his arm he had felt a flicker of a consciousness within his own. The exchange had only taken a moment, so the guards suspected nothing, but Spock had managed to tell him everything he had needed to know. And he didn't like it one bit.

He had thanked Spock for the information, and the Vulcan had immediately let go of him, the mental contact disappearing. During the rest of the conversation, he had been busy focusing on what Spock had told him.

He had heard of the London Executioner before, which is why these recent murders had seemed so strikingly familiar, but it had not occurred to him that they could have been linked. It had also not occurred to him that Spock and McCoy would go after the person behind this in an attempt to free him, although he should probably have expected it.

As he walked back to his cell, he tuned out the calls of the other prisoners and mulled over the situation. There was a killer who was replicating the killing style of the London Executioner almost perfectly, but with one difference. This killer finished off his victims fairly quickly, as the post mortems showed, but the original murderer had tortured his victims before their deaths. At the moment, he could not think of a reason for this except that torture would draw attention to the murder, whereas a quick clean death could be performed silently and the body would not be found for a few hours or days.

The fact that Spock and McCoy were going after this killer both terrified and angered him. He could never forgive himself if they were put into danger trying to save him, when it could have all been avoided had he just not picked up the murder weapon. Looking back, he was amazed at his own clumsiness.

He was always careful. Years of training had seen to that. Yet he had been drawn to the clothing which contained the weapon like a moth to a flame. Then he remembered.

The piece of clothing had been a clue, left there on purpose to taunt the police, and instead of a policeman being drawn to it, his curiosity had caused him to be in their place. This killer obviously had a personal vendetta against the police for whatever reason, and obviously derived satisfaction from taunting them by giving them evidence, but not enough to incriminate themselves. So the weapon had been left inside to make it appear as though whoever was holding it was attempting to hide the knife, to make the police believe they were after an amateur.

He raised his eyebrow in a Spock-like gesture. This person had experience, but the question was, where from?

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McCoy interrupted the pensive silence as Spock flew the air car. "Spock, what was all that about?"

Two slanted eyebrows drew together in a frown. "I do not understand you doctor."

"The coughing fit." McCoy said impatiently, waving his hand as if to prompt his companion into speech.

"Ah." Silence. Spock appeared to be concentrating as he turned some tight corners, but to someone who knew how to read him, he was merely choosing his words carefully.

"The captain staged the coughing fit in order to provide a distraction."

McCoy began to get frustrated. "A distraction for what Spock?" Spock hesitated. "What's the matter? Spit it out, man!"

"I initiated a brief mind meld with the captain in order to inform him of our intentions."

McCoy nodded. "Good. So at least he knows why we disappear into the night and come back looking like Swiss cheese." He muttered sarcastically. "Spock, he has enough to worry about at the moment, without you telling him that we're going around chasing wild geese in an attempt to find a killer- who could be halfway across the galaxy by now!"

Spock raised his eyebrow. "I hardly believe that we are 'chasing wild geese' as you say, nor will the killer have left earth."

"Then they have no sense. If it was me, I would have left earth by now!" McCoy muttered, talking more to himself than to Spock.

Spock's lips twitched. "It is fortunate for us that you are not the killer doctor. However, I am quite certain that the culprit has remained in London."

McCoy nodded, wisely deciding to sidestep the insult and focus on the mission at hand. "They want revenge. Now we just have to find out what for." He sighed. "This isn't going to be easy."

"I believe the phrase is; 'that is an understatement' doctor."

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	11. Chapter 11

_**Author note: **__So, so sorry to those who were waiting for an update that this has taken so long. I've had a lot to do recently, so hopefully this chapter will make up for the long delay…_

_Feel free to tell me off for any out of character-ness, since that's not my strong point. Hopefully the practice is making me better at it… hopefully. _

Kirk sat in his prison cell with his head in his hands, having long ago given up trying to work out the reason behind everything that was happening. The other prisoners still remained wary of him, but they had ceased their efforts to converse with him, and now spent their time either chatting with each other or circling their cells, trying to escape.

He just couldn't believe that this was happening. One moment he was on a supposedly peaceful shore leave, the next he was being arrested for the murder of an old enemy. Maybe there is something to this so called "Enterprise curse" he thought grimly. After all, once you've joined the crew nothing ever appears to be the same again.

His pondering of the "curse" returned his thoughts to both Spock and McCoy, and he suddenly wished that he could be with them, if only to find out who or what was behind all of this.

He understood Spock's theory of these recent murders being for revenge, but he just did not understand what the revenge was for. So far, there were no suspects in the case and everyone believed that they had the supposed killer under wraps. It was possible that this could be someone's idea of revenge for injustice in the "London Executioner" trial, but the convicted murderer had no known relatives or even close friends who would wish to do this. That didn't mean that there weren't unknown ones.

Kirk groaned, feeling the beginning of a stomach ache coming on from all the mysteries. In fact, it was well known that this happened to him when trying to figure out something particularly mysterious, and had become a running joke between himself and McCoy.

Which once again brought his thoughts back to his friends. He should have known that they would risk their own reputations trying to help him save his, but for once he wished that they wouldn't bother. This wasn't a mission on a far away planet where he had violated laws accidentally. This was a big scale murder investigation, with the whole of the police and prosecutors out to get him. The last people that the jury would listen to would be his own friends, and he did not want to, as the saying goes, "drag them down with him". However he could not help feeling grateful anyway.

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Jack Logan sighed and started turning the lights off in his hardware shop, glad that the working day was over and that he could go home to his family. He shuffled out the door of the shop and locked the door behind him, taking longer than usual to find his keys.

He breathed in the fresh air that only came when it was night time and there were fewer cars on the road and less fumes. He looked up at the starry sky and felt peace begin to descend upon him, as it always did when he looked at the vast pattern of life above him.

Sighing contentedly, he found himself lost in the daydreams that he had concocted when he was a young child and had dreamed of serving aboard a star ship. He smiled, wondering what it would have been like to travel the stars.

There was a clatter from a nearby alleyway and Jack turned around slowly, belatedly remembering that there was a killer on the loose. His heart thumped in his chest as he stared at the direction that the noise had come from. A shadow began to emerge from the alley, the lamplight from the street making the shadow appear slightly bigger than normal.

The figure finally entered the light fully, and Jack sighed with relief. It was only a cat. Laughing quietly at himself for jumping to such conclusions, he turned around and began walking home, whistling.

He soon lost himself in his imaginary world again, the scent of alien flowers and the feel of alien soil within his mind distracting him from his surroundings.

There was another clatter, this time from across the street, but Jack dismissed it as another cat and carried on walking. However, he could not help being jumpy as a result of the recent newsvids he had seen, and he focused more closely on the route he was taking, his whimsical fantasies abruptly forgotten.

Within ten minutes he reached the block where his house was, but he could not shake away the feeling that he was being watched.

He span around on his heel, hoping to catch whoever it was in on the act, but only darkness and the occasional car met his intense gaze. Perhaps the news stories recently have made him more worrisome than normal…

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Smiling slightly at the exhilaration of the hunt, a dark figure followed a single man along the pavement, taking great care to match his stride so that he would not hear a second pair of footsteps. The man span around without warning and the figure melted silently into the shadows, seemingly disappearing before the man could see him.

The man shrugged slightly; seeming to dismiss the sound he heard as his own imagination and carried on walking, his whistling become slightly more shaky and hesitant now.

The dark figure smirked. He had never liked this song, and now was his perfect chance to stop it from playing.

A car came speeding down the road, and he flattened himself against the wall of a house, allowing the shadows to hide him from sight as the jumpy man turned around again.

The man recognised the car and with an obvious sigh of relief, carried on walking. However, his movements were becoming more cautious now and more openly jumpy. The man was obviously terrified, all but speed walking back to his house. It was now or never.

Gripping his beloved knife in his right hand, he crept forwards. He raised his hand slowly in the air, the blade of the knife flashing briefly in the night sky before quickly plunging into the soft flesh of the man in front of him.

The man screamed and pitched forwards, writhing in pain before the killer once more descended upon him. The man continued to struggle valiantly but was no match for the monster who attacked him.

The knife became an extension of the killer's arm and plunged into the soft body once again, and re-emerged glistening with ruby red blood which dripped onto the pavement. Dagger then became paintbrush as the killer had a sudden burst of inspiration. With the victim's own blood, he painted a single number on the dead body. It was a clue, but the police would be unable to recognise it. In fact, he was counting on someone else's memory entirely.

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The prison cell door clanged open and Kirk looked up to see Mulligan standing reluctantly in the door way.

"Am I being released?" Kirk asked hopefully.

Mulligan smirked. "No, but there is an interesting development in the case. Follow me please."

With that, Mulligan turned smartly on his heel and began marching out of the holding area, motioning for the guards to bring Kirk with him.

They walked through the corridors of the police station until they came to what Kirk had come to recognise as the interrogation room. _Not again._ He cursed silently. Surely they had all the evidence they needed?

Mulligan jerked his head toward the room and Kirk walked in ahead of him. He briefly contemplated trying to escape, but realised that it was not in his best interests to do so. After all, this evidence may actually prove his innocence in the long run, although it was unlikely.

Mulligan waited until Kirk had been seated before pacing the room and motioning for the guards to stand by the door. Kirk followed the man's movements casually, looking for any signs in his body language that would reveal the nature of the news.

Eventually Mulligan stopped pacing and placed his hands on the table top, lowering himself to look at Kirk in the eye although he did not actually sit down. It was a simple case of intimidation. In lowering himself down slightly but still staying slightly higher up than Kirk, he was making it clear that he still had the upper hand and was not willing to take stubbornness of the Captain in his stride.

Unfortunately, Kirk was used to this and simply gazed back with maddening calm.

"I want to make it perfectly clear Kirk, that I want you to tell me the truth straight away. If I think you are lying to me…. I'm sure you are aware of the consequences." Mulligan spoke smoothly, as though he were enjoying verbally torturing a man he openly envied and despised.

"I understand." Came the simple reply.

Mulligan straightened to his full height once again and resumed his pacing, pausing at frequent intervals to stare at Kirk.

"I'll get straight to the point Kirk. There has been another murder." He waited to see if there was any reaction.

"Who was it?" Kirk asked softly.

"Perhaps you can tell us what you had to gain by the death of Jack Logan?"

Kirk frowned. "I don't know him."

Mulligan sighed. "I wasn't asking him if you knew him Captain. What I want to know is why he was killed! What could you have gained from his death?"

"I'm trying to tell you Sergeant." Kirk replied calmly but with a hint of irritation. This man was beginning to get on his nerves. "I never heard his name before now."

"You're lying Kirk."

Kirk leaned further forward. "How would I have managed to kill him if I was locked up here?"

"You have an accomplice Kirk. I want you to tell me who they are."

"Sergeant, for the last time; I did not murder anyone."

Mulligan sat down heavily in the chair. "I told you before Kirk. We have evidence. And in the world of law, that makes you guilty. Maybe as a Star ship Captain who spends all his time galaxy hopping you've forgotten how the system works. Perhaps spending so much time on alien planets has cast you adrift from reality…"

Kirk stiffened at the man's condescending tone, but gave no reply, knowing that it would not hep his case.

Mulligan leaned forward close enough that Kirk could see the determination in the man's hate filled eyes. "Who is your accomplice?"

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Five hours after visiting Kirk, Spock and McCoy sat in their hotel room trying to find a clue into the mysterious copy cat crime.

"Let me get this straight. There's been another murder, and the police are now convinced that Jim has someone helping him in all this? It's insane!"

Spock merely nodded, knowing better than to interrupt McCoy in one of his emotional tirades.

"The man's been on Earth for all of five minutes and he's already got into trouble!" McCoy continued, pacing around the small room, his body language and tone giving away how infuriated he was at the situation.

"We've got to help him Spock."

"I believe that it may be more difficult than originally planned, Doctor."

McCoy sat down, defeated. "There has to be a way. You said it yourself."

"Indeed. However, the evidence against the Captain is sound and we have none of our own to combat it. Nor have I gained any further insight into the reason for this. It is highly illogical."

McCoy was about to make an icy retort when he saw the look on Spock's face, and all of his anger at the Vulcan slowly subsided. The First Officer might appear as his usual stoic self, but to those who knew how to read him, he was clearly deeply troubled by the whole situation. It was probably killing him to be unable to do anything to help Jim and be forced to stand back and watch as the Captain's hard earned reputation slowly crumbled to dust around him.

"Spock. Not all things are logical." McCoy said softly.

Spock looked up and raised his eyebrow. "I know." With that, the Vulcan got up and walked back over to the computer terminal, leaving the Doctor to wonder if he had just been insulted.

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A knock at the door interrupted the deafening silence within the room, and the mouthy receptionist once again barged in.

McCoy opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.

"There is a police man here to see you." She said shortly, as if she found the whole thing irritating beyond words, and then left them alone.

A police inspector walked through the door and then shut it behind him. He was quite tall and muscled, while at the same time managing to look like an intellectual in his flawlessly smart suit and neatly combed black hair.

"I'm Inspector Norman le Borg. I'm here to help you."

"What?" McCoy could barely believe his ears.

The Inspector walked further into the room. "May I sit down?"

"Of course." Spock replied, politely indicating a chair and sounding just about as confused as McCoy felt. He disappeared from the room and reappeared a moment later with another chair, which he sat in.

McCoy, feeling absolutely shell shocked beyond belief, dropped into the last chair in the room. "You're here to help us?"

The inspector nodded. "I have access to all files regarding the case, so I can show you photographs and reports in the hope you'll be able to help or may recognise something which the police missed. Unfortunately, officially your captain is guilty until proven innocent and his 'accomplice' is still being searched for, courtesy of Mulligan. Unofficially however, I am authorised to investigate alternatives and submit any concrete evidence I might find."

McCoy still feeling slack jawed nodded. "So where do we start?"

On cue, Le Borg picked up his brief case and placed it on his lap since they lacked a table at that present moment. McCoy vaguely noticed that the case was in absolute pristine condition and went hand in hand with the Inspector's young and well ordered appearance.

The inspector opened his case and brought out a series of photographs, then closed the suitcase again and placed it to one side. "These are copies of all the crime photographs taken at the scenes of the crimes." He explained. "I suggest we move to a table; there are quite a few."

"Indeed" Spock murmured, regarding the large pile on the man's lap with a certain wary curiosity.

They dragged their chairs to a nearby coffee table, where the inspector spread out all of the photographs so that they were not overlapping.

He spent the next half an hour going through the photos and explaining the locations as well as who the victims were and evidence that the police did not understand. When they reached the matter of the jumper that had been found in Finnegan's room, McCoy interrupted.

"It looks familiar…" he muttered, squinting at the photo and holding it to the light in order to get a better view.

"Indeed it does doctor." Spock agreed quietly.

Despite the circumstances, McCoy could not resist turning to stare at the Vulcan seated next to him. "You actually agree with me!"

Spock's eyebrow rose in a rather predictable gesture before he replied, "It would appear so. Highly unusual." He commented dryly.

Before McCoy could work out if this was supposed to be an insult or not, Le Borg interrupted. "Where have you seen it before?"

Both men thought in silence for several minutes, but to their dismay neither could remember.

The inspector sighed, looking as though he wanted to punch something or someone.

"Not everyone has photographic memories" McCoy bristled, his anger at the whole situation finally catching up with him. "Although I'm surprised that you don't remember Spock." He quipped.

"Despite the fact that Vulcan memory is superior to that of humans, it is not perfect." Spock replied with an exaggerated amount of patience.

Resisting the urge to argue, McCoy forced himself to concentrate on the gruesome photographs, knowing that Kirk's freedom and reputation depended on it.

Despite all the bravado that Kirk had shown during his and Spock's visit earlier, McCoy knew that his friend was chomping at the bit to find out who the real killer was and get back to running his ship. In fact, if the man had not done his very best to cover his feelings with an air of boredom, McCoy would never have known how much being stuck in prison was getting to him.

Most people would have been extremely edgy in the same conditions, but Kirk had retreated into himself; no doubt an attempt to solve the mystery himself. To those who didn't know him, this may have caused him to come across as apathetic and unworried, but the body language which McCoy had become an expert at reading during critical situations told him that Kirk's mind was in fact reeling. He didn't want his friend to be kept in the dark about the murders any longer, so he found himself concentrating with more gusto than he would normally have done on the photos in front of him.

He almost missed what was in the photograph.

In what had been identified as Heather Watson's bedroom, there were a few patches of blood leading from the window to the body of the poor girl herself, where it mingled with the blood of the victim.

As a doctor, McCoy knew that as the girl's throat had been slit, she would not have had the strength to move from the window to the door, which meant that the murder had occurred near the door. That in turn meant that the killer had climbed up the piping and broken the window, cutting himself in the process. Hence the blood.

Add to this the fact that the room was not in that much disarray, and it was a pretty weird picture, even for a murder scene. Under normal circumstances, one would assume that a fight had taken place as the girl fought for her life, but there was no evidence of one. Yet there were objects scattered on the floor and the bed sheet was ripped roughly down the middle and half of it was unaccounted for.

He pointed this out to the inspector and Spock. Both examined the picture and came to the same conclusion as McCoy.

"It might not even mean anything" the inspector pointed out slowly. "It might only suggest that the girl saw the killer coming and tried to run for the door. She was then overpowered and killed."

"If she tried to escape, why did she leave the door locked?" McCoy countered, jabbing his finger at the offending lock.

"The human mind functions differently when being attacked doctor. She may not have realised that the door was locked. Alternatively, the murder may have overpowered her before she had a chance to unlock it." Spock explained.

"What if this means she knew the killer? Why run from someone you know?" McCoy asked.

"In that event, the murderer would not have deemed it necessary to smash the window." Spock reminded him. Damn, he'd forgotten about that.

"Right, so we've established that there was not struggle for whatever reason, and that she may have known the killer." Le Borg interrupted. "What of the blood?"

"Well, the killer probably injured themselves before or after breaking through the window, and then tore the bed sheet to use it as a makeshift bandage." McCoy said, indicating points in the photo.

"Was any blood found on the glass?" Spock asked.

The inspector nodded. "A small amount, on one of the smaller shards of glass remaining in the window."

"So we can analyse it!" McCoy exclaimed. They might have their killer.

The inspector shook his head regretfully and McCoy's excitement rapidly vanished. "We can only do that when the blood matches samples from previous offenders or those who have donated blood. No match was found."

McCoy swore. "Back to square one."

"Not precisely doctor. We now know that the killer is injured from breaking the window. It is also probable that they have an additional injury as the quantity of the blood leading to the body and amount of missing cloth shows." Spock pointed out.

"That doesn't narrow it down by much. Loads of people cut themselves on glass and sustain other injuries. If they didn't, I wouldn't be much use as a doctor Spock."

"True." The Vulcan admitted. "However, it may explain why they were in the hospital to begin with. They may then have noticed the room that Finnegan was staying in and decided to murder him."

McCoy sighed. "We don't have proof of that and we still don't know why they would murder Finnegan. It might be completely unrelated."

The mood within the room became slightly gloomier after this, and everyone looked over the photographs in silence.

"Odd." Spock suddenly commented after several minutes of silence, making McCoy jump. He showed them the photograph.

Lying on the pavement of a normally bustling street lay the owner of a hardware store, Jack Logan, who had apparently been walking home when he had been attacked. He wore the pale mask of a man who had lost nearly all of his blood, and the horrified expression that showed the gruesome and excruciatingly painful way that he had died. Painted on his chest in blood was the number three. Next to that lay a paintbrush, also covered in blood.

Repressing the violent urge to shudder, McCoy asked "What does it mean Spock?"

"I am not certain. However, I believe that the murderer wishes to be caught."

McCoy and Le Borg exchanged incredulous glances as the news fully sank in.

This would mean that they may no longer be dealing with revenge, or a killer who wanted to clear the name of the man convicted for the "London Executioner" murders. It could also be someone's attempt to follow in the convicted man's footsteps, as there were actually people out there who had admired what he did for whatever reason.

Or they could be wrong, and this could be made to seem like a copy cat crime in order to distract everyone from the real issue.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sorry the update was so long coming. I finally have enough free time to put up another chapter, which I hope you enjoy. I also hope it will explain some things..._

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Mulligan swore and practically knocked his chair over as his frustration with his uncooperative prisoner finally caught up with him. He managed to stop himself just in time however, and restrained himself to simply slamming the chair behind the desk with slightly more force than was necessary. He would not allow Kirk the satisfaction of knowing that he was becoming irritated with the man's attitude.

As time wore on and Kirk had refused to reveal the identity of his accomplice, Mulligan had become more and more convinced that he was simply doing this to goad him. He was deliberately withholding evidence to satisfy his own perverse need to see Mulligan angry. If that was the case, he was doing a damn good job of it.

The past two hours had been spent talking in circles as he attempted to force Kirk into revealing an identity, but the Captain had put his renowned stubbornness into practice and refused to give away even the smallest piece of information.

However, what infuriated Mulligan more than Kirk's attitude was the response of his colleagues. A few had come along to watch the interrogation from behind the one way mirror to see for themselves whether or not Kirk was innocent, and they seemed to be completely convinced by Kirk's claim that he was innocent. Fortunately, they could do nothing to help the captain as the evidence condemned him. Mulligan was still in charge, but he felt as though everyone were gradually turning against him and blinding themselves to the evidence.

He simply did not understand how they could claim that Kirk was innocent despite the evidence and discovery of him at the murder scene. To him, it was maddeningly obvious that Kirk was the culprit, if his past actions indicated.

His colleagues claimed that Kirk was a man of honour and duty, but that he valued the law highly, if perhaps more, than he did anything else. Yet they were talking about the same man who had once been tried by a jury early on in the Five Year Mission, and who had expressly disobeyed the orders of Star Fleet command merely to give his First Officer a few days of shore leave during the second year. He may have been found innocent by the jury, and T'Pau herself may have spoken to the Admiralty in Star Fleet on the Captain's behalf regarding the incident on Vulcan, but in Mulligan's opinion, this did not clear him of the fact that he had disobeyed orders. Therefore, he concluded that Kirk did not have as a high a respect for authority figures as his colleagues claimed, which therefore made him capable of murder.

Another argument was that Kirk appeared too calm and rational to be a mass murderer, while many others in his position would have shown worry for either their own status or the welfare of their accomplice. This, they argued, coupled with his untarnished reputation, meant that he had to have been set up. Yet they could not prove it, Mulligan thought with no small amount of satisfaction.

His kind were trained at the Academy to appear and react calm in all situations, yet the others at the police force seemed to be denying this and insisted upon the deluded belief that Kirk was innocent. He did not comprehend how it failed to occur to them that he could simply be putting his training into practice. After all, this was the captain who had supposedly been placed in these conditions before.

Mulligan glared at the man in front of him, and wished not for the first time that he could prove the man's obvious murderous nature to the rest of the force. He shrugged mentally. Those who chose to disregard the facts obviously had no hope of seeing the truth.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off the headache that was rearing its ugly head within his skull. Just a few more hours then his shift was over.

He turned to face one of the guards. "Take him back to his cell and let me know immediately if he decides to talk." He instructed, barely registering the man's affirming nod, having once again turned his attention towards Kirk.

Kirk rolled his eyes at Mulligan's order, but otherwise gave no other reaction other than to stand up and allow himself to be lead back to his cell. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that Kirk had apparently given up insisting that Mulligan was wrong with his suspicions. Feeling slightly more optimistic, he strolled out the room and made his way hastily to a coffee machine.

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A silent figure glided through the night, stalking a couple out for a late night stroll. From their clothes and the fact that they were acting slightly drunk, the figure concluded that they had just returned from a celebration of some sort. It was fortunate for him that they had seemingly forgotten the fact that a killer was on the loose, otherwise he may not have found them walking home this late.

His hand tightened almost convulsively on the knife hidden within the folds of his cloak which shielded him both from the heavy breeze and the danger of being recognised. Adrenalin coursed through his veins and his heart beat became erratic as he silently followed the couple.

At first, he had killed with order and precision, taking care to identify his victims before he cut their lives short, but now was not the case. He had found himself killing total strangers such as that man from the hardware store, and then leaving clues on the bodies. Apparently they had not yet been understood, so he had decided to hunt for more opportunities to lead the police to him. He was growing impatient.

He enjoyed this whole game of cat and mouse, and the evening news amused him no end, knowing that it would be creating an overwhelming sense of panic within the population of London and creating distrust of the police force. There was something immensely satisfying about seeing the whole city fall under his control using the simple element of fear.

The man in front of him looked up at the stars and began pointing out random constellations, and the figure felt a brief surge of anger that his soon to be victim was spending his last moments talking about _space exploration_ of all things. There was more to life than galloping around the galaxy and sticking interfering noses into other planets' business.

He had to admit that the man before him reminded him of an earlier version of himself; enchanted with the concept of far away civilisation and meeting new people. How pathetic his dream was. For him, Space brought nothing but death, destruction and decay.

The girl by his side was following his hand with her eyes, and he could practically see the soppy expression on her face as she asked her companion about the different planets. He rolled his eyes, and as a result almost stepped out of time of the couple's footsteps. He quickly controlled himself. To lose focus now would be to risk detection.

The man in front of him remained completely oblivious to the menacing presence behind him, and let his hand drop from pointing at the sky, allowing it to fall on the shoulder of his companion. She leaned closer towards him, and they continued to walk along the pavement in this fashion.

Unable to withstand the sight of any more of this behaviour, the figure lifted up his dagger. He allowed himself the luxury of imagining how he would kill this latest victim and the clue he would leave after the man had died, and consequently did not see the tin can on the pavement directly in front of him.

A clattering sound echoed off the walls of the buildings surrounding them, and the man let go of his companion's shoulder, spinning round and eyeing the killer with alarm.

His girlfriend opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Nevertheless, the figure reacted instinctively and cut her throat before she could have another chance to yell for help.

The man stared at the fallen girl in horror and disbelief before launching himself at the attacker, blinded by rage. He began striking the figure with evidence of martial arts training, but his grief was such that these attacks did little or no damage to the killer.

The killer smirked and closed in on his victim. He was close enough now to see the whites of the man's eyes, which were wide with horror and blurred slightly by tears. The blue pupils glared at him accusingly, while at the same time appearing to beg for mercy.

The girl now lay forgotten on the floor, but the killer managed to manoeuvre his latest victim towards her. The man slipped on the girl's blood and then tumbled backwards over her body, landing with a loud exhalation of air.

He stared at the girl for a moment, and then back up at the face of the man who would deliver him to death. "Grace…" He muttered brokenly, as though the word would actually have an effect on the events that were about to unfold.

Grace remained unresponsive, but the killer repeated the name mockingly before stepping gingerly over the body. As if in realisation of what was about to happen, the pitiful wreck of a man on the floor began to scrabble backwards, slipping and sliding in the scarlet blood of Grace's body. He attempted to stand, apparently to run away, but he slipped and crashed to the ground once more.

Paralysed with fear, he looked upwards once again and caught sight of the bloodied knife coming towards him. All at once the fight seemed to drain out of him and he merely sat in the street and awaited death to come. The killer stopped short at this reaction and stared in shock as tears ran down the face of the man in front of him.

He ###### his head to the side and stared at the form which was covered in the blood of the woman he had once loved. He would get no joy from killing a man who already wanted to die, so he formed another plan.

He stepped forwards and grabbed the material of the bloody shirt in his hand. He raised the knife first towards the man's throat, grinning in satisfaction as the victim's breathing intensified and sweat began running down his face. The knife lowered to the man's chest and the shirt was ripped off.

The knife carved a single number in the flesh, creating a dark track of blood which began to flow freely onto the floor. The wound was not mortal though, at least, not yet, so another number was carved. A trembling mouth opened to scream, but a hand clamped around the throat and cut off both the sound of the scream and the air the victim needed to breathe.

Just when the man was turning blue, the grip was released a little and a harsh, ragged breath was sucked in. Eyes which had been bright blue and accusing before fixed on him, and he noticed that they were now dulled by the pain. Tremors racked the body as the man slowly bled to death, but the killer was not yet finished.

He released his grip on the throat and allowed him to fall back to the ground weakly before turning to the body of Grace. He lifted his knife, ready to pierce the cold skin and dead flesh of what had once been a girl full of vitality.

"No!" A strangled cry halted his movements, and he sneered at the girl's boyfriend who had raised himself onto one elbow and was watching his actions with his other arm wrapped around his bleeding chest.

He turned back to the girl, and carved one number artistically into her skin. Small beads of blood came to the surface. Grinning as he heard the man's strangled moan of protest, he dipped the shirt of the man into the pool of blood that had formed around the girl and placed a big blob of it after the number. Finally, a second number joined the first on the other side of the blob.

He dropped the shirt carelessly next to the pool of blood and turned back around to face the man, who appeared to be in a rage at the mistreatment of the girl's body. Exactly his intention, and he enjoyed seeing the predicted rage on the young man's face.

Laughing, he held eye contact with the increasingly weak glare that was so full of venom. Lifting one of the limp hands, he checked and found no pulse. He threw the hand back down and sauntered back the way he had come.

Behind him, the corpse of the once beautiful Grace lay soaked in blood, her mouth opened in a silent testimony to her fear and pain. Her hands lay outstretched and her legs were at an awkward angle. Next to her, what would have been her husband lay with blood dripping down his bare and muscular chest, while his hand searched in vain for her cold fingers. His eyes stared up at the stars which he had been discussing so animatedly before his death, the moon reflected in his dull, blue gaze.

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Inspector Norman Le Borg knocked on the door to the hotel room he knew would house the people he wanted to talk to. In his hand he held his immaculate briefcase, and his face wore a grim expression.

The door opened and Doctor Leonard McCoy stood in the doorway. His eyes widened in surprise for a moment when he saw the Inspector, but he stood aside and allowed him access to the room.

"There has been another murder." He announced, cutting directly to the chase.

Both his announcement and the loud swearing of the CMO attracted Mr Spock to the room. "I assume you are here to share the details."

Le Borg nodded. He moved over to the table and opened his case. He took out several photographs and spread them over the surface. "The couple were Grace Mitchell and Samuel Aldridge. They were due to be married in little over a month." He felt Spock and McCoy join him at the table, and he could clearly picture the glare that the Doctor was directing at the photographs.

"Fascinating." Spock said quietly, one eyebrow slowly climbing into his bangs.

Both Le Borg and McCoy turned to stare at him incredulously. "'Fascinating'?" The Doctor quoted angrily. "What the hell is so damn _fascinating_ about this, Spock?! These people are dead! It may be many things but it sure as hell isn't 'fascinating'!"

"Please allow me to finish Doctor." McCoy glared but did as he was told. "I am merely fascinated by the fact that this is the second instance that numbers have been carved onto the bodies."

McCoy returned his gaze to the photograph. On the woman's body were the numbers four and nine with a large puddle of blood separating them. On the man's body were the numbers six and one.

"We now have the numbers three, four, nine, six and one." Le Borg said.

Spock inclined his head. "I am at a loss to understand the significance of this."

"But it's definitely a clue…" McCoy muttered, frustrated.

"We only need to find out what the clue means." Le Borg stated unnecessarily.

McCoy rolled his eyes and the conversation lulled again, the room's inhabitants allowed themselves to sink deeper and deeper into thought.

About fifteen minutes of hard thinking later, Spock spoke. "Perhaps these numbers are a code or reference."

"But for that to work the killer would have to be sure that someone knew what it meant. No one at the police station understands it." Le Borg pointed out.

One of Spock's straight black eyebrows rose slowly. "You are correct. However, they may believe that either Doctor McCoy or I understand."

"Or Jim." McCoy voiced the thoughts that were echoed in Spock's mind.

"It is quite possible that the killer expects the Captain to recognise the evidence, however it is logical to assume that they are aware that he is confined to prison."

Le Borg and McCoy nodded in silent agreement. Kirk's arrest had been broadcast all over the Federation, and it had created ripples clear to the Klingon Empire; who happened to be rejoicing that one of their formidable adversaries had been arrested.

Spock once again studied the numbers in the photographs, and began writing them on a piece of paper. Once he had written them out, he re wrote them in every possible combination, including numbers with decimal points. It was an extremely long list. McCoy studied the combinations until his eyes rested upon one in particular.

"Spock." Unable to say any more through his excitement, he merely pointed to the number.

Spock followed the direction of McCoy's finger, stared at the number, and then back at the Doctor with subtle admiration in his eyes.

Le Borg looked back and forth between them, clearly confused and not understanding the importance of McCoy's discovery. "What? What is it?"

Spock gestured for McCoy to explain. This was the Doctor's moment. "The numbers reminded me of a similar investigation that took place on Argellius II."

Le Borg nodded. "Yes, I heard of it. Your Chief Engineer was almost convicted for murders which hadn't involved him." He looked openly curious. "That's all we were ever told; the rest was classified."

"I'm sorry but I can't go into any more detail yet. It still is classified and I'm not even sure where this reference leads us."

Le Borg was obviously disappointed, but he nodded and encouraged the Doctor to continue. "It happened on Star Date 3614.9, which are the numbers that were painted on the bodies of the victims."

Spock chimed in. "In addition, the method of the murders are remarkably similar to those which occurred on Argellius II."

At that very moment the Inspector's mobile phone rang, and he answered it with an apologetic look at Spock and McCoy. A brief conversation later, he hung up.

"Something's just come up back at the station. I'm going to have to go over there to clean it up." He looked clearly unwilling to leave just as things were getting so interesting.

"Of course." Spock replied, getting up out of his chair, McCoy did the same.

McCoy waited until the Inspector had left before turning towards Spock. "We're in big trouble."

Spock's eyebrow rose. "Indeed."

McCoy searched the Vulcan's face for a while before finally saying "You know something more." It wasn't a question.

Spock nodded. "The jumper that was in Finnegan's hospital room undoubtedly belonged to a member of the crew."

McCoy remembered. "They were being sold at the Star Base while we were on Shore Leave for repairs. I remember Sulu and Chekov laughing because they accidentally bought the same design." He rolled his eyes at the antics of the two aforementioned members of the Bridge crew.

"We now know that the person responsible for the murders was on the Enterprise during the events at Argellius II." Spock's face looked thoughtful.

"Could it be possible that it's not a member of the crew at all, but someone pretending to be one to throw us off the scent?"

Spock raised an eyebrow at the Doctor's choice of words, but decided not to comment. "I do not believe so Doctor. I remind you that the information is classified."

"People talk, Spock."

"Nevertheless Doctor, it is more logical to assume that a crewmember is responsible."

McCoy sighed. "Great. We have over 400 suspects."

"470 to be exact."

"470? I thought that the maximum amount of crewmembers on board the ship was 450."

Spock looked at him in exaggerated patience. "Doctor, I need not remind you that crew rotations and transfers are commonplace on board the Enterprise. Since our mission at Argellius II, twenty crewmembers have transferred or left the Fleet."

McCoy threw his hands up in the air and sighed melodramatically. "Leave it to Jim to get himself involved in something so damn complicated. Even by accident." He growled. "He must be cursed."

"I assure you that the Captain is not 'cursed'. He has not been involved in any ceremony involving black magic, nor has he insulted or offended anyone sufficiently to become victim to one."

"Remind me to buy you a book on Earth phrases Spock." McCoy muttered, rubbing his forehead where a logic and stress induced headache was forming. "You need one."


	13. Chapter 13

A figure skulked through the dark streets of London, and smiled to himself when he saw the amount of policemen that were attempting to hide undercover in order to catch them. The only thing that gave them away was the odd footstep from a hiding spot, a silhouette in a window or a plain clothes policeman talking into a communicator. He had expected this, and had in fact been counting on it. Policemen out here meant less people guarding the prison.

He made his way to the police station, taking care to stick to the shadows and duck out of sight whenever anyone looked in his direction. Finally, he made it to the main building, where there were security guards patrolling the perimeter.

He hunkered down in some bushes nearby and observed the activity of the guards for a while, noticing that there were actually only two guards outside. It seems that the police force had not considered people trying to break into the building, as they usually try to break out. Normally, alarms around the perimeter would have warned them to any approaching people who would attempt to break out a friend, but he had taken care to examine them before he got this close.

Apparently, in the hubbub of the officers and guards leaving the station to patrol the area that the killings had occurred in, someone had forgotten to reactivate the security system, and no one had noticed, which suggested that no one was at the main desk. This was getting better and better.

One of the guards disappeared round the corner of the building, and the other one stayed at the front, walking up and down slowly. He crept over to one side of the building, keeping to the bushes, and waited until the guard reached them.

He ducked low as a flashlight was shone in his direction, and the guard began to walk away again. He climbed stealthily out of the bushes and took out his knife. He cupped a hand around the guard's mouth to stop any possible calls for help and pressed a knife to his neck.

The guard stopped resisting, and he dragged them back into the bushes. He made them hand over their uniform by keeping the blade hovering over the man's heart. He received the uniform and nodded at the guard in thanks.

The guard froze, confused at this mysterious assailant threatening him with a knife and then thanking him. The killer grinned toothily and then plunged his dagger into the man's heart. The guard gasped and then collapsed into the bushes. One witness down, one to go.

Quickly, he donned the guard's uniform and pulled the dagger out of the man's chest. He wiped it clean on the grass, and froze when he heard a voice behind him.

"Ed?" The other guard called out. He was still far away and couldn't see the body of his friend. "Have you found something?"

Keeping his back to the guard, he hovered over the dead body of Ed, hoping that the guard's curiosity would bring him closer.

"Ed, are you alright?" The guard was walking quickly towards him now and he sounded concerned for his friend's health.

As the footsteps came closer, muffled by the darkness, the heart of the killer thumped under his ribcage. He felt the familiar exhilaration of a break in and the promise of a new kill.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he whipped around. The guard's eyes widened briefly in surprise before his throat was cut, and he fell to the floor dead. Now there were no witnesses.

He walked over to the main door and used the guard's security clearance to get in, lowering his cap to hide the majority of his face since it was likely that there were security cameras.

Seeing no-one in the area, he walked behind the main reception desk and was pleased to see that the computer had been left logged onto the security cameras. He turned the cameras off all over the building and deleted the footage that may have contained him. No alarms went off.

He then began purposefully walking towards the cell where he knew James Kirk was being held, and once again used the guard's security clearance to open the door. The door slid open, and he crept in, careful not to wake any of the sleeping prisoners.

He came to the end of the corridor and opened the door to Kirk's cell, it slid open soundlessly. The figure on the bed did not wake until a cold blade was pressed to his throat.

"Do exactly as I say Kirk." He whispered just loud enough for the man before him to hear.

He jerked his head backwards, and Kirk obediently rose from his bed and walked with him towards the door. His eyes studied him carefully and his arms tensed, almost as though he was about to start a fight.

He guided Kirk towards the corridor running between the cells, closed the door that they had just walked through and then prodded Kirk in the back. Kirk walked forwards and out of the normally security locked door. Once in the corridor outside, the figure turned back and locked the door once more.

He kept a close eye on Kirk as they walked out of the station and into the night.

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Kirk glanced around him as he was led out into the darkness by this strange man with a knife. He looked out the corner of his eye in the hope to get a glimpse of the man, but the security cap was pulled low and the face was cast in shadow as a result. The man noticed this and moved the blade closer to Kirk's throat.

Together, they stole across the parking lot that surrounded the police station and began walking down the street. The figure steered Kirk roughly but quickly through the shadows, taking great care not to be seen. He was just beginning to wonder how his captor expected to escape without being caught, when he glimpsed a small hover car which was partially hidden in an alleyway.

They walked toward it, and the mysterious man jerked his head towards the boot of the car. "Get in."

Kirk looked at the boot, and appeared to be wondering how he was going to fit in such a small space. The captor appeared to notice this and growled "You'll fit. Get in."

Silently, Kirk weighed his options. They were in a dark street and out of sight of any of the houses. Even if it was possible for anyone to see them, the lights were all out in the houses surrounding them, indicating that most people were asleep or out.

The captor himself was slightly taller than Kirk, and though he limped slightly, he looked as though he could quite easily beat Kirk in a fight. Unless the man was caught of guard Kirk would have no chance.

At an insistent shove from the captor, Kirk walked toward the boot of the car, and made it look as though he was climbing in. At the last moment, he twirled around and caught the captor on the side of the head. The solid punch made the man stagger backwards, almost into the street light.

Kirk jumped onto the floor and crouched in a defensive posture, ready for an attack. There was no way that he could run away; the alley they were in was a dead end and the man was blocking the only way out. He would have to fight his way free.

Enraged, the captor closed in on him, the knife flashing in the moonlight. Kirk caught his breath and waited until the man was so close that he could feel his breath on his face. Just as the knife was about to plunge into his body, he lifted an arm and knocked it out of the man's grasp.

The knife skidded away from them with a loud clatter, but no-one was around to be alerted to the sound. The man appeared shocked by the fact that he had lost his weapon, which provided a good enough distraction for him to attack the man again.

He landed a solid punch to the man's face, and the head beneath his fist jerked back in pain. This was followed up by a sound punch to the gut which would have had any other man dropping to the floor in pain.

To Kirk's surprise and dismay, the man appeared to have the constitution of a rock, and appeared almost entirely unaffected by the punch. A light flashed in his opponent's eyes, and for a moment Kirk was lost within their mad depths.

Something collided with his face, and he jerked his head back, stars popping in front of his eyes to match those in the sky. The next moment, it felt as though a brick had been thrown at his stomach, and he collapsed to his knees gasping.

Quickly, he placed all of his weight on one hand and brought his legs forward to impact with the legs of his attacker. The man landed with a loud thud as he found his legs knocked from beneath him, and Kirk staggered to his feet.

Not looking back to see if his opponent was getting up again, he began to run dizzily towards the light, knowing that his only hope lay with those in the houses nearby. He had no hope of beating this man at combat, and he had no desire to try. He grimly realised that for once he was actually following McCoy's advice to run instead of be a 'bull headed martyr' as the Doctor phrased it.

He brought his foot up to take another step, but something halted its progress like an iron wall and he fell to the floor with a loud exhalation of air. He dimly realised that the man must have used his own trick and tripped him up from the floor just as he was running away.

He whipped himself around just in time to see what slammed into his face, and then he felt himself falling backwards, his head cracking on the concrete of the pavement.

Even more stars were dancing before his eyes than they had at the start of the fight, and he could feel a small trickle of blood running from his nose and making its way down his face. As his vision darkened, he saw the man retrieving his knife, and then felt himself being lifted into the boot of the car as though he were a child.

Unable to stay conscious any longer, he heard the slamming of the door of the air car as if it came through a tunnel, and the roaring of the engine was drowned out by the mad thumping of his own heart.


	14. Chapter 14

_Here is the next chapter! I hope you guys like it. Sorry that it's so short in comparison to the others... I'll try to make up for it later. _

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Inspector Le Borg walked into the hotel room looking extremely grim. Worried, McCoy followed him over to the table and chairs, and called for Spock to join them. Spock walked through a few moments later, his eyes inquisitive. When he saw the stern face of the Inspector, his eyes narrowed slightly in apprehension, apparently having some idea what this was about.

Inspector Le Borg sank into the chair, looking as though he were a man walking to the gallows. This only served to make his companions more anxious, although they both tried not to show it.

For a while, everyone just stared at everyone else, and the Inspector's unflappable calm seemed to give way to some measure of fear for his safety if this went down badly. He clearly had no idea where to start, and McCoy could practically see the cogs turning in the man's brain as his mind dismissed any route that would lead him to danger.

"Inspector, I suggest you get to the point." Spock said with slight impatience.

If McCoy hadn't known better, he would have sworn the man had gulped nervously and glanced towards the door. This made him even more suspicious; the man normally sat with almost Vulcan calm. He had some idea of what the news was, but he was hoping against hope that it wasn't true.

"Captain Kirk escaped from prison, apparently with outside help." Le Borg finally blurted. He shrank visibly under McCoy's glare, but then became bolder and gave McCoy a look very close to 'don't shoot the messenger'.

When Spock spoke, his voice was tight. "Do you know who helped him?"

Le Borg shook his head ruefully. "It appears that it was our killer. We found two bodies of security guards in the bushes nearby. It looked as though they were lured to the bushes to get them away from the complex."

"You mean to tell me" McCoy growled, his voice shaking with anger "that Jim is running around with the man who framed him?! Do you have any idea how much danger he's in?"

The Inspector gulped. He seemed intimidated by McCoy's predictable wrath and concern for his friend. "We're looking for him now."

McCoy nodded sarcastically and turned to Spock, his anger evident. "You hear that? They're looking for him." He turned back to the Inspector. "In case you hadn't noticed _Inspector_, this is James Kirk we're talking about. Do you have any idea how elusive he can be? I hardly think that you'll find him when you couldn't catch the real murderer in the first place!"

The Inspector looked to Spock for help, but the Vulcan appeared unsympathetic. "We're doing the best we can Doctor." He mumbled defensively.

McCoy almost growled, but it was Spock who spoke. "How did the killer gain access to the prison?" His tone was foreboding as a Vulcan's tone could possibly be.

Le Borg went pale and breathed as though he were about to drown, but when he spoke, his voice retained some pretence of the calm he used to so easily show. "The majority of the police force was staking out the area the murders have taken place in recently. It appears that in the rush the security measures were left turned off…" He wisely stopped speaking.

"Tell me, when you catch criminals, do you actually intend to _keep_ them in the prison? It sure doesn't look like you do from where I'm standing!"

"Doctor, please. Arguing will not aid the situation. We must look for Jim." Spock pointed out.

Most of the fight seemed to drain out of McCoy at Spock's words, as he knew that the Vulcan was right.

"Alright. But if the murderer doesn't kill Jim; I will." He promised.

The Inspector opened his mouth, but Spock cut him off with a look. Together, they all stood and walked out of the hotel room, and began their search for Kirk.

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Groaning, Kirk awoke slowly, but immediately wished that he hadn't. His head throbbed from the blow that had knocked him unconscious, and his vision blurred slightly when he opened his eyes. His body ached all over from the fight, and his neck felt as though it had been twisted into a weird knot from the force of the punch.

He closed his eyes once again, and automatically tried to reach up to massage the pain away from the back of his neck. He frowned when his arms seemed unresponsive, and realised that they had been tied to his sides. All he could move were his fingers, and the thin metal cord that bound him to his chair dug into his skin, almost piercing the flesh.

He opened his eyes again and was immediately greeted with the sight of a bare room in half darkness. He breathed in through his nose and immediately wished that he hadn't. It smelled terrible down here, almost as though something were rotting. He hoped that it wasn't a dead body, although it was very possible given that he was brought here by a murderer.

He immediately wondered where 'here' was, and attempted to turn around to see if there was a window behind him. He shuffled the chair slightly, and kept on doing so until he was facing in the opposite direction.

There was no window, but there was another view.

On the floor by the wall there lay the rotting carcass of what used to be a human. Some of the limbs were bent unnaturally and the head was caved in at the side. Dried blood covered the body and some of the wall. Morbid curiosity forced him to peer closer, although he did not physically move the chair, paralysed as he was by the sight.

Just visible through the smashed skull was a partly rotting brain, which was covered in dislodged pieces of hair. Bones protruded from the legs and one side of the ribcage was caved in. The eyes were open, but the eyeballs had long since disappeared, presumably eaten by some form of rodent. Apparently, there were not many of the animal that had feasted on part of the body, because some of it remained miraculously in tact.

Shuddering, he forced himself to look away, and shuffled slightly until he had his left side facing the body and his right side facing the door. It was irrational, but he was wary to turn his back on the body. After all, he had seen some strange things during his space travels, including semi living dead bodies. He forced the memory aside and tried to concentrate on breathing trough his mouth, nausea gripping his stomach firmly.

The room looked old, as though it belonged to a house built years and years ago, with cracks just visible in the walls. This image of a basement of a haunted house did not help his frame of mind.

He forced himself to calm down, and his racing heart beat slowed slightly. Step by step, he recounted his Academy training and tried to focus on other things. When that failed to work, he attempted to use the mind techniques that Spock had tried to teach him. Unfortunately that also failed.

He found himself unable to concentrate on much except his fate, and he was not exactly optimistic on this front. Glancing involuntarily back at the body, he wondered when he would ever get used to seeing dead people.

Of course, being a Star Ship Captain, he had seen his fair share of death, and he had escaped it numerous times himself, but even experience could not keep him from being repulsed at the sight before him. He tried to remind himself that this had once been a human being, and that they deserved some measure of respect, but he could just not bring his mind past the gore before him. He found himself wandering who they were and why they had been killed.

Something scratched in the far corner of the room, and he strained to see what it was. He noticed for the first time the tiny streak of light that penetrated the room through a small hole that only a rat could fit through. It scuttled up to him and began chewing on the flesh behind him, ignoring him for now.

Closing his eyes once again and still concentrating on breathing through his mouth, Kirk began thinking of Spock and McCoy. He wondered if they would find him in time to save him from whatever fate had in store for him, but was forced to conclude that the odds for his survival did not look good.

Whoever this was had been almost twice as strong as him, and was obviously skilled in combat. In his current condition and the fact that he was tied to a chair, he would have even less chance in a fight than he had before.

Recalling previous instances where he had been tied up and held prisoner, he shuffled the chair slowly and laboriously over to the wall in front of him. Unable to move his hands, he scanned it for anything that could easily lead the wall to crumble or create a hole. He soon realised that even if there had been a weak spot, he would have been unable to affect it, since his feet were tied as well. Also, it would probably be unwise to try to knock down a wall that was holding up the heavy looking ceiling above you. If he died because of the ceiling crushing him, then he would have done the kidnapper a favour, and he had no intention whatsoever in doing that.

The rat ran over to him and began nibbling at his shoelaces. He briefly wished that rats could chew through strong wire, but dismissed the thought immediately; labelling it as counter productive.

Sighing, he stayed where he was and tried to ignore the rat as it decided that he was very much alive and ran off to wait for him to die. He closed his eyes. Even the rats were against him.


	15. Chapter 15

McCoy rubbed his eyes tiredly and looked around the office that he had been sitting in for the past few hours. The police force had graciously allowed them to help search for Kirk, but unfortunately they were restricted to sifting through any evidence which might lead them to his location. A few groups of policemen had been sent out to search the city, and other police stations had been informed around the World. With modern technology being much more advanced and faster than it had ever been in the past, it was no longer a question of closing the borders of countries, but more trying to work out which country he was in, or even if he had left the planet. Not for the first time in his life, McCoy cursed technology.

He would give almost anything to know where his friend was at the moment, and was extremely worried over his fate. No ordinary criminal would break out the person who was taking the punishment instead of them; they would generally prefer to leave the person to be convicted, allowing themselves to roam free. The only possible reason that McCoy had for Kirk's abduction was that the murderer (and any possible accomplices) had an ulterior motive for Kirk being free. He did not want to imagine what that was, but past experience from the Enterprise away missions told him that the killer had broken him out to gloat, but if that was the case, he did not understand the trouble he had gone through merely to brag about his crimes. Surely it would make more sense to wait until the investigation was completely over and then visit Kirk in prison under some pretence. There was also always the chance that the killer was planning to hold him hostage or even (McCoy hated to even think about it) murder him as a warning to all those associated with the investigation. However, even that did not really fit the situation. He shook his head, feeling suddenly depressed by the fact that he could not make any sense of the situation. Even Spock was at a loss to explain the reasons behind Kirk's abduction.

McCoy turned as he heard the door open, and was relieved to see Spock walking through the door. The Vulcan's expression was severe and his posture was ram rod straight, as though he were fighting hard to suppress his annoyance with the police force. He had just been to the office of Le Borg, and obviously the discussion had not been a good one.

"They are no closer to finding the Captain." Spock announced, moving over to his chair on the opposite side of the table to McCoy.

"Damn." McCoy muttered, as he had done every other time Spock had relayed the news. "There must be some clues in this mound of paper…" He trailed off, once again looking feverishly through everything he could lay his hands on.

Normally, the police would not allow them to aid their search, but Spock and McCoy had a certain reputation when it came to solving mysteries, and though reluctantly, Le Borg had allowed them access to all evidence as opposed to evidence which he had already given them. Even reports that seemed to have no use were being turned over meticulously in the hope that some small detail was missed. So far, there had been no luck and they only had the previous evidence given to them by Le Borg that seemed to be of any value whatsoever.

About a half hour ago, McCoy had begun looking through the ship's rosters, trying to discover where the crew had gone on shore leave. Some had given definite destinations (they were required to do so in order to be beamed up at the end of shore leave, or else it would be harder to locate them), but some had only provided the destination for their beam up. So far, he had looked through around twenty records, and he had managed to eliminate at least ten from their list of suspects.

Across the table from him, Spock was also sifting through the shore leave information, and both officers were fairly certain that the killer was in fact a member of their crew. It was the explanation that made the most sense, and at the moment, one of their only explanations.

People in the next room were looking through transport information that had been provided by the public services, and were on the look out for any current or previous Enterprise crew members who had recently travelled using public transport. Unfortunately, this did not narrow the search much either, and it was becoming more and more likely that the abductor was using his own private air car. Any reports of stolen vehicles were being examined, but so far there had been no leads.

An hour later and both Spock and McCoy had finished examining the Enterprise's files, and were now double checking anything of value. Then, in the space of about twenty minutes, several things happened at once that brought them closer in their search.

First, a junior police woman had hurried into the room with a wildly excited expression on her face, which immediately caused McCoy's heart to jump into his throat in hope, and Spock to gaze at her with more interest than he had shown anyone in the past few hours.

"We have a report of an air car being stolen in the London area. Officers have been sent to investigate, and Le Borg mentioned that you were to stay here. We don't have anything definite yet."

"Well, it's a start." McCoy muttered, giving the woman a thankful nod and hoping he looked optimistic. The woman left, apparently to join those who were investigating.

Although this now meant that they had some hope of finding the captain, it might not be crucial to the search, since cars were regularly stolen in the London area, and this particular case may not be linked to finding Kirk.

However, if the abductor had in fact stolen an air car, then it meant that they were likely to have left the country, or at least this section of it. Since no-one of Kirk's description had been seen boarding public flights away from Earth, it was also fairly safe to assume that Kirk was still on the planet, and the killer with him. However, that did not rule out bribery to hide crucial information or smuggling the captain on board. It also did not rule out the possibility that private transport may have been taken, and McCoy felt all of his hope evaporate the more he thought about it.

Meanwhile, Spock had been carefully revising the reports made after Scotty's arrest after the Jack the Ripper case (as it had later been called aboard the ship), and had discovered that of the many crew men who had transferred after the incident, one of them was in security and had been assigned to searching for clues during the incident. Of course, he had been kept aboard the ship to search Scotty's quarters (as was standard procedure), so he had not been on the planet at the time, but he still had had opportunities to find out more information than was released to the public at the time.

The man's name was Ensign Thomas Anderson, and McCoy distinctly remembered that he had been friends with several people high up on the chain of Security, and several others who had been briefed of the situation by either Mr Spock or the Captain. He also distinctly remembered that all members of Security were trained in martial arts and the method of defending officers from enemy attacks, which often resulted in killing the attackers. This made him a suitable suspect, but if they were to suspect him only because of his security status or his social connections, then everyone in Security would become a suspect.

It was this point that he was debating with Spock now. "We don't have any solid proof." McCoy said in irritation, rubbing his eyes wearily and sitting back in his chair.

"On the contrary, Doctor, I distinctly remember that he beamed down for shore leave shortly before the incident on Argelius."

"So did most of the crew…" He let the sentence hang in the air before he realised what Spock was talking about. "Are you suggesting that he bought the jumper he used to frame Jim when he beamed down? That's one hell of a leap Spock. Anyone who bought a jumper could have done it."

Spock nodded slightly, steepling his fingers in thought. "True. However, Anderson also had a fascination for archaic weapons."

McCoy squinted at him. "How do you know that?"

Spock sighed slightly with impatience. "That, Doctor, is irrelevant."

McCoy rolled his eyes. Spock had probably just read it in a report where the Ensign had mentioned old weapons. "It still doesn't mean he's guilty. Sulu has a fascination for old weapons" he briefly remembered the incident where Sulu had wielded a sword on the Bridge "and he also bought a jumper. According to your suggestion, that also makes Sulu guilty. It could also make Chekov guilty since he knows Sulu well enough to use one of his weapons, and he had a jumper of his own."

"Doctor, we both know that Sulu and Chekov would not commit such crimes."

"Yes, I _know_ Spock, but don't you see the point I'm trying to make? Anderson might have nothing to do with it!" He hoped against hope that Anderson had nothing to do with it. On the brief occasions when he had met the Ensign, he had been struck by how likeable and relaxed he had been, even when he had come in with an almost crushed foot. It made it impossible not to like or admire him for his bravery and intention to stay optimistic despite the direst circumstances.

"At this moment in the investigation, every possibility must be considered."

McCoy barely managed to repress a scowl. Instead, he glared at Spock, not even sure why the suggestion that the Ensign was guilty would make him so angry. Perhaps it was merely because he could not possibly imagine Anderson doing such a thing, just like he couldn't imagine Chekov or Sulu murdering people either. Sighing slightly, McCoy went back to work.

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The atmosphere inside the cellar was becoming almost stifling, the air becoming so heavy that it seemed to sink into his lungs rather than just being breathed in. For the last few hours, he had spent his time alternating between worrying about his fate, to wondering who the body belonged to, and then puzzling over who his captor was.

He did not have the faintest idea of where he was, since he had been forced into the boot of a car while unconscious and had not awoken until he had arrived, and had had no chance to glimpse any scenery or landmarks that would give away his location. Similarly, he wished for a window in the dismal room, if only so that he could see the sky and breathe in fresh air.

Several times he had heard movement from above his head, and he was certain that it was the sound of someone moving about on the floor above him, which confirmed his theory that the captor was still here and he had not been left simply to die of starvation or lack of water underground.

The thought heartened him slightly, because if there was someone above, there was a chance that they would come to see him soon, and he would have a chance to escape. However, if escape proved impossible, he at least had the chance to find some answers to the whole mess he was in at the moment.

Whenever he had been left alone to think while he was in prison, he had let his mind drift back to the memory of Finnegan lying dead on his bed and the jumper lying on the floor. The memory was almost taunting him, and he kept reliving the moments that had led to him picking up the jumper and the knife tumbling out of its folds and into his unsuspecting hands. He dearly wished that he had not picked up the item of clothing, but it had seemed familiar to him, and he had linked it to the Enterprise. That very thought alone had caused him suspicion and he had eventually picked it up to examine it, and it was only now that he realised his mistake.

He had no theories for who had killed Finnegan, why he had been framed (if it had even been intentional, which he was pretty sure it wasn't), and who had subsequently killed more people while he was in jail. He understood why Mulligan had assumed him to have an accomplice, but it had seemed far more obvious that the real killer was the one who was murdering, not the imagined accomplice. He was in fact pleasantly surprised when he had found out that many of Mulligan's colleagues were of the same opinion, and some had even taken to murmuring kind and promising words to him as he walked past, much to Mulligan's chagrin. He hoped that those same people had realised what had happened and may be looking for him even now.

While he did not believe it likely that the police would find him, he had every faith in his two friends, who had much more experience at locating a missing captain than any police officer did. He had even tried contacting Spock through the friendship bond which they shared, but he had been unable to do so.

Sighing, he dragged his thoughts away from the topic of the investigation, and once again attempted to contact Spock. In a rarely used corner of his mind he found the link, which appeared to him as a bright light in the form of some sort of thread that bound the two of them together.

He closed his eyes and focused on the thread, getting as close to it as he possibly could. He was unsure how this was supposed to work, as he had only ever had impressions of things when Spock had been signalling him, and that had usually been when the Vulcan had been tortured or was too busy to form a coherent message. Nevertheless, he was determined to make it work, and focused on sending Spock an impression of the room he was in as much as he was able, hoping that Spock would lock on to the image and use it to find Kirk through the strengthening of the image as they got closer to each other. However, he received no response and could only conclude after half an hour's hard concentrating that he had failed.

A sound of footsteps from above penetrated his thoughts, and for one ridiculous moment he believed that it was Spock or McCoy who was walking around. However, the footsteps were heavier than both of his friends', and very likely belonged to the huge man who had fought him into the air car earlier. He looked up and followed the sound of the footsteps with his eyes, surprised to see that they were coming down stairs and were now approaching his door.

He tensed as the door opened and someone in dark clothes limped in. They closed the door behind them but did not bother to lock it again, apparently confident that they would not be disturbed.

The man was the same person who had attacked him earlier, and just as he had done at the station, he covered his face, although this time it was with a hood and not the security guard's hat. They reached up and flicked a switch, and a light immediately flickered on above Kirk's head, although it did little to light the room.

The corners still remained in shadows, and so did the stranger's face. They stepped forwards slowly, and Kirk couldn't help but notice once again that their foot seemed to be injured, as less weight was placed on it compared to the other one. He forced himself to look away from the foot and into what he assumed would be the approximate location of the man's eyes.

"Who are you?" He croaked, his throat dry from all the time he had spent in the dark and hot room without water or any similar relief. The man did not answer. "Why have you brought me here?"

To his absolute surprise, the man chuckled slightly; as though he were amused by the questions he was being asked. "Captain Kirk. You have always been a man of many questions."

Kirk blinked. Who was this? "But I get no answers." He replied pointedly, hoping that they would get the hint.

The man shuffled slightly closer, and Kirk peered into the shadows that shrouded his face. He saw a pointed chin which led to a mouth that was pressed into a firm, hard line, but the rest of the face was in shadow. He vaguely realised that he had seen this face just outside of Finnegan's room.

On an impulse, he asked "Why did you kill Finnegan?"

The figure stepped back, as if realising for the first time that Kirk may recognise him, and chuckled once again. "He was not the only sorry excuse for a human that I have… disposed of." He sounded unemotional despite his laughter.

Kirk shivered as the man continued to gaze at him. There was no doubt that this man was dangerous, and would kill again without a single thought. He glanced involuntarily at the decaying body on the ground which was lying by his side.

The man caught this unconscious gesture, and unknown to Kirk, he smiled slightly, as though it amused him that the captain was made uncomfortable by the presence of the body. "Ah, I see you have noticed McGonagall." He said mildly.

"What did you do to them?"

"I hardly think that such unimportant things matter Captain." He paused for a moment as though thinking. "Since you seem so preoccupied by it, I suppose that there's no harm in satisfying your curiosity."

Kirk did not miss the fact that the man spoke as though he was merely showing him the latest work of art he had purchased. Perhaps he believes that he is, he suddenly thought darkly.

"Brian McGonagall" he began slowly, with the sort of voice teachers used when telling young children stories "used to own the house. He was an old acquaintance of mine. It seems that he did not enjoy the idea of loaning his house to me for my… project, so of course I had to kill him with his own baseball bat. He was a big fan of baseball…" He trailed off, no doubt lost in the memory of beating the man to death. Kirk envisioned the smashed ribcage and shuddered slightly, but not enough for the man to notice. "It was a shame… I quite liked him." He shrugged and walked forwards slightly. "I hope that I have satisfied your curiosity."

Kirk did not answer. He felt mildly disgusted at the casual tone the man adopted when speaking of the murder of a friend, and he did not particularly wish to encourage him by saying that his curiosity was, in fact satisfied. However, with another look over his shoulder at the rotting remains of McGonagall, he almost wished that he had never heard the story. He pictured the man in front of him beating the other with a baseball bat, and immediately tried to turn his thoughts to something else.

He supposed that this man's 'project' as he called it was to hunt down and murder people and then come back to this house to hide, but he still did not know what the reason was behind all of this exactly.

"You're being very quiet James." At Kirk's sharp look, the man carried on. "Oh, but I _can_ call you by your name. You see, I know you, and at the moment you are not in a position to be a captain are you?"

Kirk vaguely noticed that the man had a hint of a posh English accent, and he wondered where he had heard it before. The man chuckled.

"You're not going to call me by _my_ name?" He made a noise of mock disapproval. "I find it hard to believe that you don't recognise me James. You always made such a show of knowing all the names of the people who worked for you." Kirk frowned. It appeared that this was an ex member of his crew, but after having seen so many faces come and go, he simply could not remember anyone in particular besides the ones he talked to daily. The man sighed. "You really don't remember me do you? I can see that I'm going to have to help your memory along a bit."

Coming closer, uncomfortably so, the man removed his hood and stood in front of Kirk, smiling slightly defiantly. He had a fairly handsome and kind looking face, but his eyes gazed at him with a hint of madness and hate, as though something had recently pushed him over the edge. The nose was slightly crooked, and Kirk belatedly remembered that he had seen the same crew man walk into Sick Bay with a broken nose after an away mission had gone awry.

To his knowledge, this man could not possibly have murdered all those people, he had seemed like such a nice man when the two of them had talked.

He gasped slightly in surprise, and the man laughed. "So you _do _remember me! So James, maybe you can work out what we're both doing here."


	16. Chapter 16

_**Author's note:** I'd just like to mention that I've assumed the ages of Kirk and Spock in this story, so I apologise now if I got it wrong. Anyway, there's a nice long chapter, so enjoy!_

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Le Borg walked back into the office with barely controlled excitement radiating from his face. They finally had a lead as to the killer's whereabouts, and incidentally, Captain Kirk's.

The office was strewn with official looking documents, and half buried in them was the Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise, and the First Officer. For hours on end, both men had been helping the police in their search for Kirk, and concern had been evident in their eyes whenever they were told that there were no further clues. Finally, he would be able to offer them something other than disappointment.

McCoy looked up as though finally having noticed Le Borg's presence, and the Inspector did not miss the wary look of hope in the Doctor's eyes as the man awaited the news.

"We just managed to trace the air car that the killer is using." He announced jubilantly. At that Spock, who had ignored the Inspector's presence, jerked his head up. Both men seemed too surprised to speak. "It was stolen a few weeks ago, right out of the garage that it was in. it wasn't fully repaired, so we can assume that it didn't get far."

"By 'not fully repaired', what do you mean exactly?" McCoy asked dubiously, knowing full well that the thief may have been able to fix it themselves.

"The engineer mentioned a problem with the fuel tank. Apparently you can't go very far without running out of fuel, and any journey without plenty of fuel stops would be absolutely impossible. Only a mechanic has the expertise to fix it properly."

"Fascinating." Spock mused. "We must logically assume that the Captain is still in England."

"All we have to do is find him." McCoy said, entirely unnecessarily, his voice a lot more optimistic than it had been for the whole day.

Spock raised an amused eyebrow. "Indeed. It also reduces our list of suspects considerably."

Le Borg turned to Spock curiously. "How many suspects have you narrowed it down to?"

"Five; Ensign Anderson, Ensign Chekov, Lieutenant Sulu, Lieutenant Palmers and Doctor Peters."

"I still don't like the idea of Chekov and Sulu being on that list. How many times do I have to tell you that they would never do something like that, Spock?" McCoy fumed.

With barely suppressed irritation, Spock replied "As I have reminded you numerous times, Doctor, every possibility has to be considered."

"Even if it's completely unlikely?" Spock didn't answer McCoy's question.

Le Borg decided to cut in before McCoy could get even more annoyed than he already was. "I understand why you suspect Anderson, but why Palmers and Peters?"

"Lieutenant Palmers has, on numerous occasions, displayed a certain amount of animosity towards Captain Kirk. He is also trained in the martial arts and is known for his fascination with archaic weapons such as daggers and guns. He also had knowledge of the Argelius case, as he worked at close quarters with Mr Scott."

"And Doctor Peters?" Le Borg asked.

"Doctor Peters left no specific Shore Leave destination and has made no contact with any crewmember aboard the ship during the time the murders occurred. While that in itself is not unusual, he has expressed an interest in the historical case of 'Jack the Ripper', and subsequently, Mr Scott's arrest. Due to this… fascination, he also has an extensive knowledge of archaic weapons."

Le Borg nodded, turning the suggestion over in his mind. "None of them are likely to repair the fault with the air car?"

"None of them have the capabilities."

"Sulu and Chekov might." McCoy pointed out.

"True. That is what makes them the least likely suspects."

Le Borg shook his head in defeat. "We have people checking for sightings of the air car around the clock. I'll let you know the minute we find anything." With that promise, he walked out the room.

"Well," McCoy drawled "this is as good a time as any for a coffee. Can I get you one?" He added, noting how tired his Vulcan companion looked. He probably looked as bad as Spock, if not worse.

Spock shook his head. "Vulcans have no need for caffeinated beverages."

Shaking his head at this purely Spock-ian response, McCoy replied "Fine. Suit yourself."

He was extremely relieved that they at least had a rough location for Jim Kirk, and that he no longer had to worry about his friend being dragged to a far away planet with the door firmly locked and the key thrown away. However, they still weren't out of the woods yet, since they did not have any idea why Kirk had been taken prisoner at all, let alone where he was and who he was with.

McCoy realised that if only he knew who was responsible, he would feel slightly less worried about his fate. If they knew who he was with, then they may be able to predict the reason behind his abduction and the amount of danger he was in, and also have more of an idea about the obvious revenge involved. They would also know why Kirk was involved, or even if he had originally been framed, or if it was merely an accident.

If it was an accident, then that made the jumper a clue, not an attempt to frame Jim, as he and Spock had already surmised. This is what bothered McCoy the most. The culprit was clearly baiting them, and seemed to enjoy the danger of being caught. He had heard many cases where this was also the case, and the criminal had then used a person as bait and killed them before they were ever rescued. It had of course occurred to him that this may be the case with Jim, but given the circumstances, it did not make sense. Also, the Captain was still alive, which hinted that the killer was either toying with them, torturing him, or…

McCoy suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and almost dropped his newly acquired cup of coffee as a though suddenly occurred to him. What if Kirk was being held and told everything in the hope that he might have no choice but to do something for the murderer? It seemed almost impossible, and insane, because Kirk would never willingly do such a thing, but there was a nagging feeling somewhere in McCoy's gut that told him it might be true.

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Kirk stared at Anderson in complete confusion, and the man chuckled. "You really don't have clue, do you?" He grinned, showing sharp white teeth. "You honestly don't know why you're here."

"No." Kirk snapped in frustration, wishing that the man before him would just explain. "I don't."

He received a strangely amused and delighted look. Frenzied blue eyes bored into his own. "This is too good to be true!" He exclaimed suddenly, throwing back his head and giving a short, chilling laugh. He leaned forwards slightly to look Kirk in the eye. "I will savour the moment of explaining this to you."

Kirk forced himself to look back into the psychopathic eyes that held his own prisoner. All traces of the kindness that had once been there had long since disappeared. "I'm listening." He replied, knowing that he had no choice but to listen, but at the same time feeling a burning desire to find out just what exactly was happening at last.

Anderson licked his lips and began pacing. "As you know, I'm 34, the same age as yourself and Mr Spock."

Kirk interrupted him. "How is this relevant?"

Anderson lifted a hand as though placating a frustrated child. "Patience, James." He eyed Kirk's bonds pointedly. "You have plenty of time." He resumed pacing, and Kirk fought to keep his frustration at bay. He could vaguely hear the rat chewing on the dead body behind him. The killer seemed to hear it too, and smirked. "It seems that the rat is enjoying its lunch."

Kirk gave the man an icy glare. "I don't care about the rat. I want to know what is going on."

The ex Ensign chuckled again. "You must learn to control your temper James, or you will not hear the rest of the story." He grinned manically. "It is a truly good story." He watched as Kirk slowly calmed down. "Very good."

"As I have already told you, I am the same age as you and Mr Spock. Would you care telling me how old your mother is James? I find myself wondering if she is the same age as my own mother." At Kirk's uncooperative glare, he sighed dramatically and pulled out a device commonly found on twenty first century Earth.

"A taser?" Kirk asked in surprise. Such things were rare now.

Anderson grinned. "Such a beautiful instrument, don't you think?" Kirk did not answer, but the look of disgust on his face spoke volumes. "I rather admire the ingenious way in which it works. I won't bore you with the details. I don't usually use such weapons, although this has been modified to make it smaller, easier to use and much more effective. It works much like the Klingon agonisers. Personally, I prefer my knife." He twirled the instrument in his hands. "If you continue to be stubborn, I will be forced to use it, is that understood?" Kirk nodded. "Good. I believe we are beginning to get along very well. Now, how old is your mother?"

"It's not important." Came Kirk's reply, his voice containing a stubborn quality.

The man before him sighed. "Really, I expected more of you. Very well; you give me no choice."

He reached forwards and pressed the taser into Kirk's neck. There was a buzzing sound and Kirk jerked in his chair convulsively as much as his bonds allowed. Electricity was coursing through his veins and he clamped his mouth shut, absolutely refusing to make a sound even as a gut wrenching scream tore its way up his throat. Suddenly, the buzzing stopped, the pain receded and he found himself staring at the ceiling as though pleading with any deity that might exist. He was somewhat surprised to find himself conscious.

"Now, since I'm sure that you don't want to suffer through that again, and since the age of your mother won't break any Star Fleet security codes, perhaps you will tell me?"

"She is 55."

"Hm. So she had you at a very young age. 21, I believe?"

"Yes." Kirk muttered, not really understanding how this was important.

"My mother is 54." Anderson said conversationally. "I believe that Spock's late grandfather was 89 when he passed away?"

"When he was murdered." Kirk corrected, feeling intense anger on Spock's behalf.

"You have no understanding of euphemism, it seems." He looked strangely amused, which only fuelled Kirk's anger further. "The reason I am asking you this is because I am sure that you know what happened 50 years ago, when our grandparents were in their thirties. In fact, Mr Grayson was 39 when he solved the case."

"The London Executioner." Kirk supplied. Things were beginning to fall into place.

"So you have been paying attention after all."

"You sound surprised. It is my job."

"Yes, of course it is, James. Anyway, ten years before that case, when our grandparents were in their twenties, a man fell in love with a woman."

Kirk blinked at this sudden change in direction. This man's thought processes were extremely hard to keep up with. He was all over the place. "Why is that…"

The killer cut him off. "Ah, but if I told you in a straight forward, _logical_ way, where would be the joy in working it out for yourself?"

"I don't care about…" His voice was cut off by a silent scream as the taser was once again pressed to his neck.

"Where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Ah yes." He retracted the taser from Kirk's neck and the Captain let his head droop forwards, panting slightly. "The man fell in love with a woman, and worked painstakingly hard to gain her affection. It was actually quite romantic. They moved in together and were due to be married a few years later, and decided to go for a short holiday on the Mars colony.

Kirk frowned. "That was a few years before the case of the London Executioner."

"While I am astounded by your truly amazing leaps of insight, you must allow me to finish my story. I enjoy telling it; I don't get many chances to tell stories. Anyway, the woman discovered to her great joy that she was pregnant, and it was then that she discovered her fiancé's true nature." Anderson was actually beginning to look angry. "He refused to have anything to do with the child, and wanted her to have an abortion or put it up for adoption."

Kirk just couldn't help himself. "May I ask why?" He asked, mimicking the falsely polite tones of his captor.

"Yes, you may. He said it would ruin his career. He was an actor and didn't particularly want a baby trailing around with him."

Reading between the lines, Kirk finally understood what was happening. "She refused the abortion."

"Of course she did!" Anderson exclaimed, as though it was shocking to think otherwise. "She left him and stayed on the Mars colony to raise the child herself. The man had broken her heart; she couldn't even stand to be on the same planet as him."

Anderson paused for a moment, clearly aiming to build up tension within his captive audience. Kirk found his mind racing ahead. He remembered reading in Anderson's file that he was from the Mars colony…

Anderson began speaking again. "He returned to Earth, and his life soon went downhill. He lost work as an actor and became severely depressed. Eventually, his grief pushed him over the edge and he vented his emotions in the only way he knew how."

"He killed innocent people." Kirk spat, not even caring that this earned him another small jab from the taser.

"Do not interrupt. He actually released them from their Earthly concerns, so that they could have the peace that he knew could only be found from death."

Kirk barely restrained an incredulous snort. "If that was his aim, then why did he torture them?"

Anderson glared at him. "It wasn't torture. It was the Executioner's belief that to have the peace he could give them, they first had to experience pain."

Kirk opened his mouth to object, but saw the man's hand fingering the taser on his belt. He remained silent.

"You learn fast, James. Well, you know the rest; Spock's grandfather convicted my grandfather and he died by lethal injection."

"Why decide to have the revenge now? You served aboard the Enterprise for two years."

"Very astute." Anderson seemed to be getting more sarcastic by the second. "I will tell you in good time. My grandmother knew that her ex-boyfriend was the Executioner, but she kept his secret. Soon though, she realised that what she was doing was wrong, and led Grayson to him."

"I never knew that." Kirk muttered. He had always assumed that Spock's grandfather had solved the case alone.

"Of course you didn't." He explained patiently. "She told him to keep it secret, for she couldn't bear the pain that it would cause the man she still loved if he found out. Anyway, she distanced herself from his memory, and only very close relatives, closest friends and her direct descendents knew the truth. Out of respect of her memory and fear of their own reputations, they kept her secret when she died."

Kirk nodded. "I'm beginning to understand where this is going."

A grotesque smile lit up Anderson's handsome face. "Wonderful, James! I may as well continue with my story, since we are so close to the finale. My mother grew up and then married a man whom she truly loved. He was quite unlike my grandfather, and she constantly repeated this tale to me whenever I misbehaved, as her mother did when she was a child. We were, apart from one extremely huge exception, a normal family."

Something in Anderson's expression told Kirk that he was expected to comment. He humoured him. "Not for long."

The ex Ensign nodded. "My father fell ill and died when I was only 15, and my mother soon grew insane from grief. She showed signs of turning into my grandfather, so I took her to a doctor for help. It's what she would have wanted, had she been in her right mind. Unfortunately, she got progressively worse and was taken away to a colony where she could be treated better. I have not seen her since."

Despite the fact that he loathed the man in front of him, he felt an intense wave of pity when the blue eyes cleared slightly and reflected the unmistakable grief. "I'm sorry." He mumbled half heartedly.

"I had to live knowing about my family history, but being unable to tell anyone. I was determined to be as unlike my grandfather as possible. I moulded myself after my father, and even joined Star Fleet, just like him. I kept my grandmother's secret, so there is no mention of it in my file. I thought I had left it behind me. I could finally get on with my life."

"Argelius…" Kirk whispered, more to himself than the man in front of him.

"When I heard of Mr Scott's trial and the entity that flourished when it created pain and despair, a thought occurred to me. I began to wonder if my grandfather had been possessed by a similar entity."

"You were wrong." Kirk said. He immediately received another shock.

"No. I was _not_ wrong, James. Don't you see? It's the only explanation! My grandfather had been kind and gentle. The entity changed all of that. I thought that when the true nature of Jack the Ripper was revealed, my grandfather would be cleared. The jury would realise their mistake and I would finally be able to live with the knowledge that my grandfather was not fully responsible for his actions."

"The information is classified. No one knows of the entity."

Instead of a shock, he received an angry punch. Anderson was losing control. "_Don't you think I know that?"_ He hissed.

"That's what this is about." The words came quickly now. "You want to clear his name. You want to get caught, and because you're a member of Star Fleet…"

"_Was_ a member." Anderson corrected.

"Star Fleet would send someone to defend you." He continued as though he had not been interrupted. "You would be able to tell them, and the galaxy, everything. Your grandfather's name would be cleared."

Anderson shook his head. "I'm afraid that you're not quite right. That was originally my intention, yes, but I soon realised that Star Fleet would rather see me crash and burn. They would distance themselves from me; it's safer than getting tied up in a legal battle and they would be able to maintain their precious reputation." He gave a bitter laugh.

"So the murder of those who were related to the people who solved the case… that wasn't for revenge?"

"Oh, _that_ was revenge, yes. I thought that I might as well punish them at the same time as clearing my grandfather's reputation. You know, kill two birds with one stone."

"Why did you murder Finnegan and frame me?" Kirk demanded.

"James, James, James. All in good time. Don't jump ahead of yourself, there was more to Argelius than just the entity. We haven't finished with that yet."

"What?" Kirk asked, surprised that there was more.

"Spock, with all his…" he grimaced "'_superior'"_ he spat "intellect and memory should have recognised his father's mistake."

"He didn't."

"I know that perfectly well without your input, thank you. You're right though. He didn't. Which is precisely why he had to be the one to work out what was going on. A chance to… redeem himself, so to speak."

"That jumper." Kirk's mind was working fast now. "You knew he'd recognise it. You waited until you knew he was at the hospital, I saw you…"

Anderson chuckled. "Right again! I used my injured foot to get into the hospital without looking suspicious, and crept away before a nurse could treat me. I knew that I did not have enough time for treatment; if I waited to long, Spock might leave and the opportunity would have been lost."

"I walked into the trap…" He could hardly believe it.

"I hardly think so." At Kirk's confused look, he carried on. "You see James, it wasn't a trap. I thought that even you would have enough sense not to pick up evidence… no, it was supposed to be just a clue."

"My capture still worked to your advantage."

"Oh yes! If anything, it improved the plan. It made dear old Spock even more determined to catch me, and for that, I thank you." Kirk snorted. "Unfortunately, Spock took longer than usual to work things out. It seems that even he is prone to the emotion of grief."

"He isn't cold blooded, if that's what you expected." Kirk began angrily. "He would never just…" He was electrocuted again.

"I am always right." Anderson snarled. "Do not contradict me again, I will not _tolerate_ it!" When he was sure Kirk was finished, he carried on. "I began thinking of inventive ways to catch his attention. In fact, I discovered that I enjoyed painting numbers on my victims' bodies in their own blood. I began to take joy in the kill, just like my dear grandfather."

"Yet you killed slower than him." Kirk pointed out, hoping to bring some humanity back to this monster by revealing what he hoped was a weakness.

To his surprise, Anderson looked distinctly embarrassed. "Yes… well, they _do_ have a most unfortunate tendency to scream during torture, and quite frankly, I didn't want a headache. Nor did I want to be overheard when I was having so much fun."

Kirk would have been shaking with rage and revulsion, had he not been tied so securely. "You…" He was too disgusted to speak.

The killer laughed at his reaction. "I suppose you'll be wondering why I'm telling _you_, when I could have left you in jail to rot." Kirk didn't answer, Anderson carried on. "Oh come now James. Why don't you stop being such a spoil sport and humour me? Ask me why." He waved the taser lazily in front of Kirk's face.

"Alright." Kirk's voice was deceptively calm. "Why?"

"Really, I do hate your short sentences. Most uninventive. You can do better than that."

"Why are you telling me this?" Kirk growled angrily, barely controlling his sense of utter frustration.

The sickeningly wide smile was back. "Much better, you're improving. The answer is simple; you are one of the only people Spock would do anything for."

"You're mistaken." Kirk lied quietly, fully aware of the danger Spock was now in.

Anderson laughed heartily. "So touching, but your lies are futile, I'm afraid. You _are_ going to bring me Spock so that I can have my revenge."

Kirk shook with fury and frantically tried to break free. The crazed man laughed even harder, which only served to incense him more. "I'm afraid escape is impossible James. I learned one or two things from the Fleet."

"Then you should also have learned that no sane officer would take part in your scheme willingly."

Anderson ###### his head to the side in a grotesque imitation of the Vulcan he wished to murder. "I never said that you would be willing."

"Spock will never walk into a trap blindly!" He shouted out of utter desperation to keep Spock safe.

"Of course he wouldn't under normal circumstances; he has more sense than you. However, I think he will, once he knows you're in danger."

"Your plan won't work." His voice was triumphant now, but the ex Ensign's reply ruined his short lived feelings of victory.

"I know of the friendship bond between you." He narrowed his eyes at Kirk's suspiciously blank expression. "Do _not_ insult my intelligence James. I had close Vulcan friends on the Mars colony, I know of the type of mental bond you have."

"You are mistaken."

"Am I? Can you explain how you know that he is in danger before anyone else does?"

"Gut instinct." Kirk lied. He couldn't know, how did he know…

"No James, it isn't. You know very well that I am right. I always am."

"You're wrong." He tried to stay calm, to keep the panic out of his voice for Spock's sake, but he knew from the look on Anderson's face that he was failing.

"We shall see. He will feel your pain and follow it here."

"You're wrong." He repeated, but his protest was feeble. "He'll realise what's going on, you told me everything, and I can tell him through the bond."

"You admit it's there then?" Kirk didn't answer. "Very well Captain, I call your bluff. If you could communicate using words, you would have done so already and he would be here."

"How do you know that he isn't delaying? Stalling for time so that I can gather information?" He was clutching at straws now.

"Because James, you are ignorant of how the bond works. All humans are, unless they specifically ask a Vulcan for instructions on how to control such things. You did not recognise its potential, and that ignorance is going to lead to the death of your best friend. The question is; how long will it take?"

He lifted up the taser and flicked a switch. A red light glowed, and Kirk suddenly had the sinking feeling that he had not yet experienced the highest setting. In a few moments, all conscious thought fled his mind as electricity coursed through his brain, and he screamed his throat raw. He writhed in his bonds in an effort to break free, tipping the chair violently. His vision tunnelled until all he could see was Anderson, eyes ablaze with delight and his mouth wide open as he laughed a laugh which was drowned out by Kirk's agonised screams.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Author's note: **I would like to take this opportunity to thank those of you have been reading, and also those who have commented anonymously. Your support has helped a lot in keeping me going from chapter to chapter. So I've been trying to make chapters a bit longer... I hope you all enjoy this!_

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Slowly sipping his scalding hot coffee, McCoy ambled back to the office, using the short break as an opportunity to look around the sections that were nearby.

He made his way down a deserted corridor and peeked into the first room on his left. Inside was a large wooden table upon which evidence and paper documents were strewn and one solitary datapad peered through the mound of paper that smothered it. Behind the table sat a young Lieutenant who appeared nervous and almost constantly fiddled with his pen, which earned him several angry and irritated glares from one of the guards nearby. On the other side of the table was a man who was being questioned, and of what McCoy could see of him through the narrow door, he was sitting back in his chair comfortably; totally at his ease.

The man being questioned mumbled something that was silenced by the thick door, followed by a pointed glance at the pen which was still being clicked nervously. The Lieutenant blushed a deep shade of crimson and, after looking at his hands as thought he had only just realised what he was doing, he put the pen away. He glanced nervously at the mirror which was directly ahead of McCoy, and the doctor belatedly realised that the young man was being assessed by his superiors, perhaps to gauge his suitability for a new position. Smiling ruefully at the memories of his own assessment for CMO, he carried on walking while occasionally steeling glances through each door.

Most of the rooms were empty, but occasionally her would stumble upon an important looking office containing a secretary or a board meeting, and moved swiftly on before he could be spotted.

He was just about to turn the corner when he heard raised voices penetrating the corridor from a slightly open door a few feet away. On a sudden impulse that he couldn't really explain, he made his way closer. Pretending to be reading a notice board nearby in case he was caught, he began to listen.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, I really don't believe that we should launch a rescue party!" Mulligan's indignant voice was instantly recognisable. "Kirk has _not_ been abducted; he was broken out of here by his partner in crime. The station should be concerned with putting him back behind bars!"

"Mr Mulligan" came an exasperated female voice which McCoy did not recognise, "there is no accomplice and the Captain is innocent."

"Until definite proof is found that is technically untrue. Unless I'm mistaken, we have always worked upon the basis of 'guilty until proven innocent', have we not?"

"Yes, we have." The female admitted grudgingly.

"Then why even waste time with this discussion?"

There was a loud sigh and McCoy could almost imagine the female officer placing her hands on her hips and glaring at Mulligan in absolute annoyance. "Do I have to remind you, yet again, that the decision has already been made? You were brought to my office as the person in charge of the case so that I could inform you before the search began. I saw no need for you to be any more clueless than you already are in regard to your case." McCoy couldn't help but chuckle silently at the woman's talent for insulting people.

"Clueless?" Mulligan's voice was comically astonished. "If that's your opinion of me why am I still on the case?"

The answer was simple. "You've proven your worth in the past. You're one of the best officers there is, even if you are blinded by contempt for Captain Kirk."

"Blinded by…?" He was incredulous now, but sounded slightly mollified all the same. "Ma'am, my behaviour has been strictly professional throughout this case. If you think otherwise…"

He was cut off by his superior. "I do not think otherwise, but I do think that you are being unnecessarily rash in contradicting my decision for a rescue party."

"He's guilty!" Mulligan exploded. "He does not _need_ to be rescued from his own scheme."

"I don't deny that there is substantial evidence proving Captain Kirk's guilt, but…"

"There's enough to send him to prison for life at best!"

"Please let me finish." The voice was as cool as a glacier, and there was an intimidated silence following it. "As I was saying, there _is_ a lot of evidence, but there is also the fact that murders continued during the time that Kirk was being held here."

"We've already established that there's an accomplice."

"No, _you_ have established that, but many of the officers here feel differently. It could be perfectly possible that Captain Kirk was framed. Surely you are aware of that possibility, we have discussed it before."

"Men like him…"

Mulligan's would be rant was calmly interrupted. "That is exactly what I meant when I said you are blinded by your contempt."

"I… I'm not…" He seemed to be at a loss for words in the face of such blunt insults.

"Well then, since you are of course acting 'strictly professionally' throughout this case, you should have no objections to my decision."

There was an annoyed silence and McCoy could almost see the staring contest that was taking place in the office. "We don't know where exactly to look." Mulligan finally pointed out.

"Then you will of course organise a wide search?" Mulligan must have nodded because his superior carried on. "Mr Spock and Doctor McCoy have very kindly arranged a list of suspects." There was a sound of rustling paper as it was pushed across a desk to Mulligan. "You can use this as an estimate of where to start the search."

There was a brief silence, and then Mulligan spoke once again. "Sulu and Chekov?" He sounded incredulous, and McCoy found himself inwardly smirking at Spock, glad that someone else shared his opinion.

"Mr Spock mentioned that it is logical to include all possibilities."

"He's an idiot then. Those two would never do anything like that; it's well known that they respect Kirk." He scoffed. "Only a Vulcan could think up something so ridiculous." McCoy's insides knotted on Spock's behalf at the undeserved insult.

"That's _quite_ enough, Mulligan!" Apparently his superior was having none of it either. "You will keep your prejudiced thoughts to yourself in the future."

Absolute silence followed her words, only to be interrupted by a meekly defiant "yes ma'am" from Mulligan.

Satisfied, but still sounding understandably angry with the man in front of her, the female officer said "Good. You understand your assignment?"

"Yes."

"I am sure that Mr Spock and Doctor McCoy will be willing to help you, and I have authorised them to do so." Mulligan must have made a disgusted face at this apparent lack of confidence in his abilities, because her voice became slightly softer. "It is not that I don't trust you, but they are Kirk's closest friends. I'm sure that they are desperate to find the Captain, and if he is on the run from the law as you believe, they will know where he is likely to be found."

"Yes ma'am. I understand."

"Good. You may leave." Alarmed at the sudden end in the conversation, McCoy walked as quickly as he possibly could around the corner in the hope of avoiding Mulligan as he came out the office.

However, heavy footsteps coming closer told him that he would not remain unseen, and he began walking confidently down the corridor, hoping that he appeared as though he had just exited a room and had not been eavesdropping. The footsteps followed him for a few seconds, and then disappeared into another room, and the sound of a door closing told him that Mulligan had entered his own office.

Relieved at his narrow escape and entertaining thoughts of how he had dramatically improved at being stealthy and finding out important information, McCoy entered the office where Spock remained hard at work. Looking over the Vulcan's shoulder, McCoy saw a detailed map of England and possible locations circled in red.

He clapped a hand onto the Vulcan's shoulder and was surprised when Spock jumped slightly. It was only by a millimetre, but it amused McCoy all the same. Spock only jumped when he was deeply engrossed in his work, and McCoy's feelings of anxiety suddenly returned with the bleak knowledge of the work that was so successful in distracting Spock.

"I just overheard that the station is sending out a rescue search for Jim."

Spock furrowed his brow slightly, his only outward sign of confusion. "I was under the impression that they continued to suspect the Captain of evading the law."

McCoy shook his head. "Mulligan's superior seems to think that it's more likely that Jim was taken hostage. They're organising the search now."

Spock seemed to search for the right words to express his relief. "I am… gratified that this is the case."

"So am I." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "What do you think is happening to Jim? The whole situation doesn't make much sense."

"I do not know. I am somewhat… unqualified to speculate on emotional motivation. There is very little logic in what is happening."

At any other time and in any other place, McCoy would have been pleased to hear the apparently infallible Vulcan admit to a weakness, but when Spock said it, he was disheartened. This was the one moment where the situation depended upon accuracy, but the one person who was renowned for it appeared to be completely confused by what was happening. Perhaps not completely confused, McCoy hastily amended, but a slight lack of understanding was almost just as bad.

Sighing, he sat back down in his chair and continued to nurse his coffee, hardly even noticing that it was almost cold. His mind drifted to his secret stash of Brandy in Sick Bay, and he couldn't help thinking that this was definitely the time for a quick drink.

Mirroring Spock's actions, he loaded a map on his computer screen and began circling the places that he thought any of his suspects were likely to be. Naturally, he did not include Sulu and Chekov in that list, which was precisely what made it his own personal list of suspects. In his opinion, if either of those two crewmembers had decided to frame Jim and then break him out of prison, the sky might as well be falling.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kirk's head fell forewards and he panted desperately for breath, while at the same time doing his best to ignore the searing pain that had been left in his neck by the absence of the modified taser. Without meaning to, he found himself comparing this… instrument to the Klingon agoniser, and immediately came to the conclusion that this was worse. Much worse.

He had been forced to endure this treatment several times in the space of twelve hours. Every so often, Anderson would come into the room where he was being held and shock him with the taser until he could barely hold his head up for the pain, and would then leave him, presumably to watch for the arrival of Spock and McCoy. Every time there was no sign of intruders, Kirk would be 'punished' with another quick shock.

When Anderson left, he found himself falling into an exhausted sleep, his mind spinning with all the confessions he had been told and all the possibilities that came with it. After a few hours, even with a brief rest period, he was alarmed to find his strength waning, and he was rapidly losing his ability to prevent the pain from reaching the bond.

Anderson had of course been right about Kirk's ignorance of the friendship bond that tied him to his First Officer, but he had been wrong with his assumption that Kirk was unable to work out its use by himself. Already he had managed to master the aspect of protecting the bond from pain, although he was not quite sure how exactly he was doing so.

Anderson's voice brought him back to the present. "Why isn't he coming?"

Kirk raised his head defiantly, wishing that he could free his hands to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "I told you he wouldn't. He knows that it's a trap."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "James, this is becoming tiresome. You and I both know that this is not the case."

He continued to muse as he paced the length of the room and back again, his gaze alternately on the floor and then Kirk, as though both were extremely interesting. His limp had become slightly more pronounced, and Kirk couldn't help but wonder if he had been injured again or if it had become infected.

The man before him suddenly snapped his fingers with a look of someone who had just had an epiphany. "It seems that I have made a mistake in my calculations. You _do_ know how to shield him from pain don't you?"

Despite his weakness, Kirk managed to keep his head raised defiantly and maintain eye contact with the deranged man before him. "No." Even to his own ears, the words sounded transparent and he cursed mentally.

"Oh, but this is touching." He smiled obscenely. "Can't you see James, that I know _exactly_ when you are lying. It's obvious."

Kirk didn't react, although mentally he was kicking himself. "Is it?" He asked, questioning Anderson's reasoning.

"I'm sure of it. I have been shocking you for hours, but still he has not come. Surely a true friend such as him would try to rescue you at the drop of a hat once they knew you were in danger."

"He's more sensible than that. It's not his style to rush into danger alone and without protection. He's probably assembling a team at this very moment." He spoke the words even though he didn't believe them, for he realised that where his life was concerned, Spock would probably do the exact opposite of what was logical. The Vulcan may not admit to it and disguise his actions with logic thought up after the crisis was over, but it was true.

Anderson laughed at that. "Ah yes. I forgot that Vulcans are notorious for taking their time when it comes to rescue. I suppose they class such things as a quick rescue as illogical. Why waste energy running to the source of the trouble when you can walk there with an army?" He started laughing again. Kirk seethed, but said nothing, knowing that he would receive a shock for contradicting the man's opinion. In his stated of mind, he would be unable to block pain from the bond much longer, and he didn't want to weaken his will power unnecessarily.

"Well, in any case, I believe that a higher voltage may be needed. Don't you agree James?" He laughed carelessly at the look of pure malice on Kirk's face.

He pulled out the taser once again and flicked a switch. He then proceeded to dangle the device in front of Kirk's face, and with a look of absolutely crazed delight, began to speak in a soft and chillingly smooth voice normally used by hypnotists.

"Now James, when I press this into your neck, you will lead your Vulcan friend here for me." He smirked, clearly under the impression that his joke was hilarious.

"Dream on." Kirk spat.

"Oh come now, there's no need to be rude. I don't go around talking to you like that. I'm being perfectly civilised."

"Civilised?" Kirk repeated mockingly. He inclined his head to the taser. "_That_ is civilised?"

Anderson chuckled. "Compared to my other methods; it is. What you must understand, James, is that I have the utmost respect for you."

"Do you?" Kirk growled, unable to believe his ears.

He nodded seriously. "I do. Why else would I use one of my more humane devices? I could just as easily cut off your limbs one by one." His face suddenly became thoughtful. "Actually, that might be far more affective than what I'm doing now… and more fun, of course." He looked at Kirk in a calculated way before once more continuing. "Of course, blood loss leads to death rather too quickly for my liking. I'm enjoying myself far too much. Oh, and of course your death would make matters much more complicated."

He continued to swing the device in front of Kirk's face, his blue eyes following its progress with an almost childlike fascination. Kirk, instead of watching the taser watched the man before him warily, watching for any signs of weakness.

"Anderson." Blue eyes instantly met his. "Do you realise that you're becoming like your grandfather, possibly worse?"

Anderson laughed. "Your attempts to appeal to my so called good nature really do amuse me James. Yes, that thought had occurred to me when I started my project, but I have accepted this fact. It seems that I am… taking over the family business." His tone was sickly amused by his own little joke.

"The man you were aboard my ship; there's a part of you still like that deep down. Don't you feel any remorse for what you've done?"

Anderson's eyes flashed with an emotion, but were replaced by insanity before Kirk could identify it. He gave a shaky laugh. "I slaughtered that part of me when I decided on this course of action. The man you once knew no longer exists."

Kirk prodded further, hoping to gain a more obvious response from the once kind man in front of him. "You've killed innocent people." He indicated the body behind him. "You've murdered your friends. Yet you say you feel no remorse?"

The laughter disappeared until not a trace of it remained. "I have no conscience James. I inherited that from my grandfather and the being that possessed him."

Kirk knew better now than to insist that such a being did not exist but was a figment of the man's imagination. "You know as well as I do that a person is not based solely upon one ancestor. Aspects of each person were combined to create you. From what you tell me, your mother did her very best to show you kindness, and your father taught you to love; something that your grandfather never did."

Anderson's face twisted briefly with an unidentifiable emotion, only to be replaced by scorn. "You are forgetting that my mother grew insane from the grief of my father's death. Anything that she taught me was forgotten at that moment. She was overcome by the same instincts my grandfather was. There is no love or kindness in my blood."

Kirk remained persistent. "You are wrong. Your mother was overcome by the loss of the one man she truly loved, as was your grandfather. Love is a part of you, just like it is a part of everybody else."

"We were speaking of remorse James. Do not tell me that the taser is making you forgetful."

"I'm getting there. You knew love once, before all of this. You once loved those close to you, and you lost that when you murdered your friend back there." He nodded once again to the body.

"He was not a close friend." Anderson said dismissively. "He was more of an annoyance that I put up with for my own convenience. He knew what I had become but he continued to help me. I needed that help so I pretended that I still cared enough to be his friend."

"You're lying to yourself."

"Really James, I'm hurt by your accusations." He sounded sarcastic now; the brief glimmer of humanity that had appeared had now been replaced by the lust for revenge once more.

"It's true."

Anderson rolled his eyes, clearly unwilling to discuss the topic any further. "You waste your breath James. What I'm doing is perfectly reasonable. The fact that my ancestors may not approve does not matter; they're not here. I'm capable of deciding for myself what is right and what is wrong."

"It goes against everything you were taught as a child."

"Children are impressionable, and I was the absolute worst of them. What I'm doing is right. My grandfather deserves to be cleared, and Spock deserves to be punished for his lack of insight." His eyes were practically boring a hole in Kirk's forehead. "And you, my dear ex Captain, will also suffer for the pointless debate about love that you forced me to participate in. You will watch your friend die slowly from where you now sit, and then will join him even slower."

Kirk glared at the man with an amount of hate that he had never before felt for anyone, not even Finnegan when he was still in the Academy.

As if sensing Kirk's thoughts, Anderson began speaking once again. "By the way James, I believe you asked me earlier why exactly I murdered Finnegan. I believe I gave you a vague answer, but since you will die within a week, you deserve to know." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You will recall that I was also in the Academy, but in a different class to you of course. Finnegan had a favourite past time of humiliating and mentally torturing fellow students, it seems, and there were hardly any exceptions."

"You were a victim of his." It was not a question.

Anderson nodded, but his expression was once again sarcastic. "Once again I marvel at your brilliantly inspired leaps of logic Captain. No one else would ever have guessed as much in so short a space of time." Kirk glared at him. "Yes, I killed him for what he did to me at the Academy, and of course, what he did to you. I still have some measure of respect for you, even given all of your obvious faults." He grinned. "I enjoyed killing him immensely; it was like an old school reunion in some ways. Unfortunately, he didn't see it in quite the same way."

"I'm not surprised." He received an amused look.

"Yes, he didn't seem to find it the same joyous occasion that I did. I was strangely disappointed; I imagined more of a fight from him. Ah well, I suppose that being bedridden in hospital gave him a slight disadvantage."

"Very slight." Kirk's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Anderson laughed loudly. "Your sense of humour is improving James! Perhaps you'd also like to know that he was in hospital because one of his old victims managed to get to him before I could." He laughed harder at Kirk's expression. He continued to swing the taser hypnotically in front of Kirk. "I always wondered how hypnotists put their victims to sleep."

Kirk did not comment since he didn't find the subject as important as Anderson did. Anderson looked at him questioningly. "You have no opinion on the matter?"

"No."

"I find it such a shame that we have no common interest. Civilised conversation would make this whole experience so much more bearable."

"Sorry to disappoint you." Kirk retorted acidly.

"Apology accepted." He said, with a mock bow of the head. He returned to his musings as he once again began swinging the object back and forth. Kirk was beginning to get fed up with the constant motion. "Perhaps it is a simple illusion. Or maybe there is some truth to it after all. There are many things which we do not understand…" He continued to move it back and forth. "Perhaps I should research it…"

"I'm sure there are people dying to see what you discover." He received a small punch for his comment.

"I find it tiresome to constantly remind you not to mock my interests. I understand your need to outlet some of your anger, but I'm really getting tired of it." He tore his gaze away from Kirk's face long enough to look back at the taser that was still swinging. "I find that it resembles a pendulum in some ways… swinging closer and closer to its target."

He moved it closer and closer to Kirk's face to illustrate his point. If the Captain had not been restrained, he could have snatched it from his unresisting grasp. With a small chuckle of mirth, he pressed it into Kirk's neck, and Kirk tensed, ready for the intense pain that would follow, but to his surprise, no shock came.

Instead, Anderson was laughing at him, still holding it to his neck. "You are such an amusing man, James."

Kirk was beginning to become irritated with the constant repetition of his name. "I'm glad that I'm still good for something." He snarled, glaring at his bonds, his patience finally snapping.

Anderson laughed harder. "Much as I enjoy your company, I will have to say goodbye to you, and I'll see you in a while… when your mind is no longer clouded by the pain that this shock will give you." Then, with a little wave, he pressed the button.

And Kirk's world shattered as his thoughts lost all conscious restraint and began their wild rampage throughout his mind. Yet through it all, he could feel the electric monster creeping its way to the shimmering gold of the friendship bond.


	18. Chapter 18

McCoy rubbed his eyes tiredly and glared at the map in frustration. He was infuriated at how many possible places there were for a wanted criminal to hide, and he had never before realised how difficult it had to be to be a member of the police intent on catching a desperate criminal. For the tenth time that evening, he silently thanked the Gods that they knew for sure they were still in England. If he had to look through any larger area of map, he'd probably go insane from the stress.

They had been searching for almost two days now, and the search parties had not reported a single sighting of Kirk or anything suspicious that could be related to the case. So far, neither he nor Spock had slept, and while he was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation, Spock appeared to be avoiding such things. Being a Vulcan, he could of course go for longer periods of time without sleep, but the stress of the past week or so of supposed Shore Leave had taken its toll.

His mouth was set in the Vulcan equivalent of a pronounced frown, and his eyebrows were knitted together so tightly that McCoy doubted that the Vulcan would ever be able to raise one by itself any time soon. The death of his grandfather had obviously had an impact, but of course Spock had done his best to suppress any traces of emotion that he might have felt. To any outsider who did not know Spock very well, it would appear as though he was the very picture of Vulcan calm, aside from his irritated expression of course, but that was not very pronounced. However, McCoy had known him for a few years now, and had been through many difficult missions with him, and knew all the subtle signs that the Vulcan unwittingly gave.

His posture was slightly more rigid than it should have been, but subtly so, so that it only became obvious after a few moment of careful observation and comparison with his normal posture. This was undoubtedly caused by worry for Kirk's safety, but McCoy had also seen Spock appear as tense as this when he was fighting to keep control of his emotions. He had used the very same tactic a few years ago during their impromptu journey back to Vulcan for his would be wedding.

Even as McCoy watched, Spock grimaced slightly, as if in pain, but the expression was gone even as fast as it appeared, so that McCoy could not be certain that he had seen anything at all. Mentally shrugging, and deciding that he could use a break, if only to stretch his legs, he stood up.

"I'm going to see how the search is going." He announced.

Spock looked up and despite McCoy's belief of a few moments ago, raised an eyebrow. "That is illogical Doctor. We were informed that we would be notified of any change."

"Illogical or not Spock, I need to know." Spock raised a second questioning eyebrow. "Think of it as a means of ensuring my emotional well being." He joked, and then walked out the room.

Before he disappeared down the corridor, he could have sworn he heard Spock say, "I doubt that such a thing is possible."

He did a double take. Had Spock just suggested that it was impossible to keep him sane? He shook his head. He was getting a lot better at insults, which in turn meant that he might be allowing himself to act more human. McCoy smiled impishly.

He managed to track down Mulligan a few minutes later at the coffee machine. "How's the search going?" He asked, pouring himself a drink at the same time.

Mulligan eyed him with barely hidden annoyance. "Did it ever occur to you that constantly hassling me about the search might actually make it go slower?"

McCoy rolled his eyes. He'd said that almost every time that the Doctor had asked. "Just tell me. All I wanted was a short answer. It will only take about five seconds."

Mulligan sipped his coffee and surveyed McCoy over the rim of the cup. "Fine. We've searched every area near London that we could think of, but we haven't found anything."

"Well, did you ever think that they might not actually be near London?"

Mulligan looked at McCoy as though he had recently grown two heads and turned orange. "Of course they're near London. That's where the killings took place. How likely is it that Kirk's accomplice would travel halfway across the country just to murder one person at a time?"

"I'd say it's likely." McCoy countered, deciding to ignore the mention of the imaginary accomplice that Mulligan seemed to believe in.

The man before him crossed his arms and raised his head arrogantly. "Oh? Just what experience do you have Doctor?"

"Enough to know that the culprit doesn't always hide in the most obvious places." He snapped. "I've seen my fair share of these situations, don't forget that."

"Yes, but sometimes the most obvious place to hide is the place that the police are the least likely to search. In this case, the most obvious place to hide would be near London, since it's where the killings took place. Hiding right under our noses seems so foolish that normally the police wouldn't even consider it. That's _why _we're looking here."

"There might be a reason why it's considered so foolish." McCoy hissed. "No sane person would hide at the scene of the crime!"

Mulligan smiled in arrogant triumph. "This person is obviously not sane. Excuse me, but I actually have some work to do."

He strode out the room, but McCoy remained where he was, his blood boiling in rage. Mulligan's superior was right when she said that he was clueless, he thought darkly. He could hardly believe that his friend's safety and possibly his life could be placed in such incompetent hands. If only he knew where to start looking, he would be out of this building and searching for Kirk, even if it took him all year.

Fuming, he made his way back to the office, muttering under his breath the whole way and not noticing the odd glances that he received from passers-by. He jerked open the door and stalked into the room, then proceeded to throw himself back into his chair, almost spilling the coffee all over himself.

"At this rate, we're never going to find him." He growled, more to himself than Spock, and glared at the monitor. "Mulligan hasn't got a clue what he's doing."

He paused for effect, took a sip of scalding hot coffee and jumped as he burnt his tongue. Swearing at the offending cup, he slammed it onto the table and eyed it warily. "A chimp with a blindfold could do his job better."

It was only when he uttered that last sentence that he realised that Spock had not answered him at all since he had started his angry rant. Normally he would at least expect a comment from him explaining just how his comparison with a chimp was completely impossible, but none came.

Concerned, he looked up and stood hurriedly as he caught sight of the Vulcan for the first time since he had walked into the room. Spock was sitting rigid in his chair, his face contorted in agony yet he made not a single sound. Even as McCoy watched, Spock groaned and his hands flew to his forehead where they clutched at his hair as though it was a lifeline. Moments later, one of his hands had jumped down to the side of his neck, as though he had just been bitten or received un unsuspected electric shock.

Silently wishing that he had his tricorder and medical kit with him, McCoy was instantly by his side, clicking his fingers in front of the Vulcan's face in the hope that he would snap out of it. He knew that touching him would be a bad idea. Spock was a touch telepath, and in his current state he would probably be unable to shield against the barrage of emotions that McCoy would likely transmit to him.

Spock's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped slightly, his arms falling abruptly to his sides. He remained seated and upright in his chair, but McCoy put his arms on either side of the chair just in case he suddenly fell foreword onto the floor.

"Spock?" He asked loudly, hoping that the Vulcan could still hear him and was still conscious. He risked placing a hand on the man's shoulder and shook it slightly. "Spock, what happened?"

Slowly, the First Officer raised his head and managed to gain control of himself once more. McCoy noticed with some concern that Spock's eyes contained a number of emotions; shock, fear, concern, but most of all, anger. Clearing his throat, the Vulcan spoke. "The Captain is in danger."

An icy hand immediately clawed at his stomach and his heart leapt into his throat. "What?" He rasped, although he didn't really want to hear the news again.

"I felt it through the bond. He is being tortured using what appears to be a modified taser."

"Do you know where he is?"

Spock shook his head regretfully. "No. However, I believe that I can use the friendship bond to locate him."

McCoy was curious despite the circumstances. "How does that work?"

"If you are asking how I will find him, I will follow his pain."

The Doctor suddenly felt extremely concerned for Spock's welfare if he was going to willingly follow the pain he had just witnessed. "Spock…" He trailed off without knowing how to continue, but Spock seemed to understand his unspoken concern.

"It is necessary if we are to find the Captain." The Vulcan pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "I will inform Mr Mulligan."

McCoy stood up as well, one arm ready in case Spock fell. The First Officer eyed it pointedly and raised an eyebrow. McCoy let it fall back to his side. Together, they ambushed Mulligan just as he was leaving the building.

"What now?" He sounded extremely irritated.

"I am able to locate the Captain." Spock explained without any preamble.

Mulligan was clearly shocked for a moment or two, but then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Have you been in contact with him without informing me?"

McCoy rolled his eyes and growled, "No." He wanted nothing better than to shake the man back into his senses. This was getting ridiculous.

Mulligan was still suspicious despite McCoy's denial. "If you have not been in contact with him, then you are helping him evade us."

"Why would we do that?" McCoy sputtered. "We're trying to help you find him damn it!"

"I'm not so sure."

McCoy threw his hands heavenwards. "Look, whether you think we're helping him escape or not, you need us to find him for you."

"I'm perfectly capable of finding him myself with the help of the search party."

Spock's brown eyes pinned Mulligan to the wall behind him. "Are you continuing the search in the London area?" Mulligan nodded. "Then McCoy is correct; without our assistance you will most certainly never find him."

"I don't see how your help will make any difference." Mulligan retorted, pointedly looking him up and down and raising his eyebrows as if to suggest that Spock was useless.

"Damn it man!" McCoy roared, his patience finally disappearing as he grabbed Mulligan by the collar. "You either help us or you don't, but either way, we're going to find him. What will your superiors say when we find him first? What will happen to you when they hear that you had a chance to help but chose not to out of pure arrogant bull headedness?"

Mulligan looked down at McCoy's hand calmly and removed it from his collar. He then proceeded to flatten his uniform while he spoke. "That will not happen Doctor, because I am certain I know where he is."

"You were also certain that he would not be able to escape from prison." Spock pointed out, his voice icy and cold.

Mulligan drew himself to his full height and looked Spock in the eye. "That was not my fault."

"Nevertheless your opinion on the matter was incorrect." Spock replied without batting an eyelash. "When this past mistake is considered, it is logical to conclude that you may be mistaken again."

"This situation isn't logical." Mulligan hissed angrily. "What makes you think that you can apply logic to everything, even emotionally driven circumstances?"

"I was merely stating that you may be incorrect."

"That doesn't answer my question, _Mr_ Spock." The police officer hissed, throwing insolent emphasis onto Spock's title.

"In this current situation your question is irrelevant." Spock replied, neatly sidestepping the question once again. "Will you aide us in locating the Captain?"

"No." Mulligan hissed angrily.

"Very well. We shall proceed alone." He collected McCoy with a look and strode out into the car park.

"Spock, we needed his help!"

"He did not seem inclined to give it to us."

"He's completely incompetent." McCoy said loudly, not caring if Mulligan overheard him. "When this mess is over I'm going to report him to his superiors, or at least give him one hell of a verbal whipping."

The expected eyebrow rose. "I shall remember to be present when you give him a 'verbal whipping' as you say."

McCoy grinned at the unexpected sincerity behind Spock's words. "I'm sure you'll find it something to remember for a long time to come."

"Indeed. I have no doubt of your capabilities."

"Was that a compliment?" He asked in surprise. Grinning at the affirming nod, he climbed into the passenger seat of their hired air car.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anderson pulled away with satisfaction and placed the taser back in his pocket. "There; that should do it." He looked at Kirk's exhausted form in amusement. "Tired Captain?" He chuckled. "I expected slightly more resistance from you."

"You expect a lot of things." Kirk panted. "You expect Spock to come, but he won't."

Anderson sighed in annoyance. "If you insist upon lying to me I will have to shock you again."

"I'm not lying."

Anderson raised an eyebrow in parody of the Vulcan he was waiting to murder. "Really? I was under a different impression." However, instead of shocking him, he merely gave him a sound punch to the stomach.

"I though you said you were going to shock me." Kirk puffed defiantly.

"I changed my mind. There's nothing like a good solid punch, is there James? Except, perhaps, for a good kicking, but considering my foot I opted for the punch." He grinned slowly. "Would you like to see my foot?"

"Why would I?" Kirk asked, repulsed at the idea.

Anderson laughed. "I thought not. It isn't pretty." So it _was_ infected. "Well, I think it's just a matter of time until your precious Vulcan arrives."

"I told you, he won't…"

"… Ever come to rescue you despite being your best friend because he has more sense than that, yes I know. You told me." He sounded irritated, but his eyes suddenly lit up as something else occurred to him. "You have a friend called McCoy, don't you?" Kirk didn't answer, but his expression of shock spoke volumes. "I think it would be interesting to see if he comes along."

"McCoy wouldn't know where to find me."

"Ah yes, but Spock does, and McCoy knows Spock." His expression turned thoughtful. "If McCoy does decide to join us, I'm afraid that I will have to kill him."

"If you kill him, there will be no-one to report what happened to the police. Your grandfather can't be cleared if no-one knows what happened." Kirk pointed out, desperate to keep his friend out of trouble.

"That is such a transparent attempt to keep McCoy from harm, but no matter. You have a point."

Kirk sighed in relief that was short lived as Anderson came close again. This time, he took a knife from his pocket and twirled it carefully between his fingers.

"Perhaps I can torture him first. Of course, it won't be enough to kill him, but it will leave an impression and make sure he tells the police…" He laughed. "I look forward to seeing your friends. I love reunions."

He drew the knife over his shoulder and then threw it at Kirk as hard as he could. Kirk closed his eyes as he saw the blade flying towards him, and heard a whistling sound as it barely missed his body and landed in the chair. Opening his eyes, he was astonished to see how close it had come to landing on either of his legs.

Anderson laughed again. "Of course, if I really wanted to, I could get the knife right on target, but I enjoy a bit of suspense. It makes this experience a lot more fun."

He limped forewords and yanked the knife from the wood, savouring the splintering sound as the blade came free. He appeared to listen intently for a moment whilst staring at the ceiling. "Hmm. Perhaps it is time for another does of treatment." He laughed at his own parody of a doctor.

Giggling manically, he came closer, holding the taser in one hand. "Now just relax James, I promise you that this won't hurt a bit." He smirked. "Of course, all doctors say that but when is it ever true?"

He pressed the taser into his neck and laughed as Kirk convulsed in his chair once again. He never seemed to tire of his source of amusement. Unknown to either of them, halfway across the country an air car nearly crashed and a Doctor was swearing in shock.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Author's note:**__ I'm really, really, really sorry for this taking so long, and hope that you enjoy this chapter. Grimmgirl, you do not need to hunt me down; I've come out of hiding… _

_My only excuse for it taking so long is that I seem to just kill computers, but it's back now!! Anyway, let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes in this… and thanks for being so patient._

_________________________________________________________

"God dammit Spock let me drive!" McCoy bellowed after the Vulcan barely managed to keep them on the road through a haze of pain. "At least I can steer without us getting killed in the process!"

"Doctor, you do not know the location of the Captain."

"You tell me where, now let me drive before you kill us!"

Sighing slightly Spock managed to find an appropriate place to stop over by the road and allowed McCoy to clamber into the driver's seat.

"I'm glad you saw sense," McCoy said dryly as he started the engine once again.

Spock did not deign to answer and McCoy, reluctant to waste any precious time that they had, veered onto the road, narrowly missing a honking lorry coming from behind. His driving was slightly less manic than Spock's had been, but they were still in danger of crashing whenever the Doctor turned around to keep up to date with the Vulcan's condition.

"Turn left here." The command was abrupt and McCoy had to turn the wheel sharply, barely avoiding over turning the air car in his haste to make the turning on time.

"Would it kill you to give me some warning?" McCoy snapped, glaring at the road.

"I apologize. I was uncertain of the direction."

"How much further?" McCoy asked, anxiety refusing to relinquish the grip it had around his stomach.

"Approximately one hour at our current pace."

"He could be dead by then!"

Spock winced at the shocked outburst. "Doctor, please refrain from any excess emotionalism."

McCoy stared at the Vulcan in shock until another near collision forced his attention back onto the direction they were travelling. "I can't help it! I can't just bottle it away Spock; I'm worried about him!"

"I am aware of that," Spock replied wearily," however, I have lowered my mental shields in order to follow the bond. Your emotionalism is starting to interfere with my efforts."

At that confession, McCoy's anger at Spock's apparent apathy melted away, to be replaced with renewed levels of worry. "I understand," he muttered finally, although he was unsure if he did. Telepathy was completely alien to him.

The drive continued in silence, and the houses gradually thinned out, to be quickly replaced by the English country side. The fields were big and cheerily green, stubbornly defying the grim mood within the air car.

Occasionally they passed another car, but as their journey continued the area became more and more remote. The perfect place for torture, McCoy thought grimly.

Spock pointed wordlessly to a farm gate and they drew up alongside it. Unknown to either officer a light flickered on, hidden by the unruly hedge and bushes that surrounded the fields. Not a single soul was in sight apart from the odd curious cow gazing at them from a remote distance.

"You're sure this is the place?" McCoy squinted at the old fashioned farm house, trying hard and failing to picture it as the ideal location for a hideout or a prison to his best friend. It even had an old fashioned wooden door to add to its innocence.

Through a haze of pain Spock nodded, and McCoy noticed that the closer they got, the more the Vulcan refrained from talking and the paler he became. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow as he stepped out of the air car and he shivered slightly in the warm summer breeze.

Together, they moved towards the gate, sidestepping the mud and puddles which told of a recent storm. McCoy reached out to push the gate open but a shaking hand stopped him.

"Wait." Quietly, Spock stepped forwards and began examining the gate with his eyes, as though searching for traps. Evidently, there were none. Both men completely missed the small pinprick of light that continued to glow from within the dark confines of the hedge.

Wordlessly, Spock pushed the gate open, and McCoy released his breath with relief when nothing happened. The place was clear.

"We don't have any weapons."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "That is unimportant."

"We can't go running into a situation like this without ammunition!" McCoy hissed, belatedly realizing that they should have brought weapons with them at the very least.

"Doctor, the Captain is being tortured _now_. We do not have sufficient time to arm ourselves." The Vulcan continued foreword, a wary McCoy following in his tracks.

They reached the wooden front door and Spock quickly inspected it with a practiced eye as he had done with the gate. Abruptly, his body stiffened in pain and he swayed, moaning slightly.

Alarmed, McCoy moved to support him. "Spock?"

The First Officer did not speak but instead drew himself upright, remaining on his feet by sheer determination alone. He gasped for breath but pushed himself away from McCoy and opened the door. The two men entered cautiously.

"The pain is gone," Spock whispered.

"Is he still alive?" McCoy asked in alarm.

"Yes," Spock nodded, "but we must move quickly."

A new sense of urgency hung around them like a shroud as they walked further in and suddenly found themselves in a chamber of horrors the likes of which McCoy had never seen before.

The house at one point had been tidy and homelike, and from the photographs it could be deduced that a family had once occupied this building. Their eyes stared at them happily, contrasting the atmosphere around them completely.

The living room had been transformed into what looked like the head quarters for some sick operation. A map of London sprawled across the table, with red ticks on various houses as though the person responsible had been working from a list. On the walls there was an assortment of vicious looking instruments of torture. A mace swung sickeningly from its hook, bits of flesh and blood embedded within the grooves of metal. Lying on the sofa was a baseball bat, the end of which was covered in clotted blood from where it had recently been used to beat a victim. A solitary hair clung from it in silent testimony of the victim's last agonizing moments.

Beer cans littered the floor like leaves and broken glass crunched under their feet like gravel as they examined the room. There were various stains on the walls and bottles lay beneath them where they had been thrown. Clothes were draped over chairs, blood spotting them like some sadistic parody of a leopard skin. Newspaper cutouts showered the room like confetti and some danced in the breeze from the open door.

Books had been pulled off shelves and the room was in a general state of disrepair. A cushion had even been ripped to shreds in a fit of rage, and the stuffing spilled out over the floor ominously.

The kitchen was much the same; the fridge door hanging off by its hinges, its contents spewed over the grimy floor. Behind the kitchen table lay a discarded First Aid kit, with half the contents missing and the other half spattered with dried blood.

They continued into the house, searching for Kirk but finding no sign of him anywhere.

A grisly surprise awaited them in the downstairs bedroom.

Three people lay on one king sized bed as though sleeping, although their bodies were decaying and were covered in a fine layer of dust. On closer inspection, McCoy saw that their throats had been slit although there was no sign of blood, as though the killer had cleaned them and laid them here in a parody of continuing life.

"The family from the photos," McCoy whispered hoarsely, unable to take his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

"Perhaps the father is responsible."

McCoy swallowed at the implications that this had. "Let's keep moving."

They retreated from the room and found themselves inside what looked like a spare room. It was completely barren, empty and cold. Devoid of any life.

They stood just inside the doorway, and McCoy suddenly had the feeling that it was a trap. Some sixth sense developed aboard the Enterprise screamed at him to run while he still could, but he remained rooted to the spot.

His eyes met Spock's and in that split second of realization, the floor opened up beneath them and they found themselves hurtling into hell on Earth.

A light flashed in the corner of the room and Anderson grinned. They had come.

The man before him looked at him warily. "What?"

"They have come, James. They have parked next to the gate."

"No," Kirk gasped, looking as though he were witnessing the apocalypse. "No…"

Anderson delighted in the stricken look upon his captive's face. He was enjoying this, his final revenge. "I thought that you of all people would be pleased to see your friends. They outnumber me, perhaps you will be rescued. I have prepared for this moment endlessly, so of course I won't let that happen," he smirked.

He looked upwards as though he could see through the ceiling. The sound of footsteps could be heard exploring the first floor of the house. "How amusing."

Kirk looked at him incredulously. "You find this _funny_?"

He laughed. "Well of course. You see, your dear friend followed your pain, but once he entered the house, it stopped." He chuckled again. "He's searching in the dark. I wonder how long he'll take to find us."

"You're enjoying this."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "I grow tired of your unfailing need to state the obvious, James." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "Hmm, they should be here soon."

Footsteps came to a halt directly above the area where Kirk and Anderson waited. There was a soft click and the captor smiled in anticipation as he pressed a button mounted on what appeared to be a remote control. A trapdoor that was previously hidden swung open and two figures dropped in, landing awkwardly and accompanied by the sickening crunch of broken bones.

"Ah, Mister Spock, Doctor McCoy. So glad you could drop by." Anderson calmly watched as the two men lost their battle to stay conscious. "Of course, by all means rest after your hectic journey." Anderson smirked and moved forwards to tie them up.

"Leave them alone!" Kirk suddenly yelled, rocking backwards and forwards desperately in his chair. He received an amused look for his trouble. "Let them go."

Anderson laughed. "Or what James? You'll put me in prison? It is a little late for threats."

Kirk continued to protest throughout the time it took to tie the two officers up.

McCoy was tied to a chair that had been brought down five minutes earlier, his dislocated shoulder and broken ankle sitting at odd angles.

Spock was left to lie on the hard concrete floor with his hands and feet bound together in front of him. His broken arm soaked his shirt sleeve in blood and a gash in his head allowed a trickle of blood to flow into his eyes.

Anderson turned to Kirk once he was finished. "Do not speak out of turn James, you are giving me a headache." He pressed a taser into Kirk's neck and the Captain's mouth opened in a silent scream of pure agony. Behind Anderson, Spock twitched and groaned.

Kirk's head drooped foreword and Anderson stepped back, satisfied. "Good. Have you learned your lesson?"

"Go to hell." Kirk slurred weakly before the darkness claimed him.

"Everyone seems to fall asleep in my company." Anderson mused to himself before sauntering upstairs to gather some weapons.

McCoy awoke to a throbbing pain in his ankle and his shoulder, as well as an ache in the back of his head. Automatically, he tried to lift his unharmed arm to reach his scalp, but found that he was bound to a chair.

"Great," he groaned, surveying the room. He caught Kirk's eye. "Jim?"

Kirk nodded in weak response to show that he was awake and McCoy sighed in relief. He had thought that he had lost his friend forever when Spock had announced that the pain had disappeared. He caught sight of Spock lying on the floor. As he watched, the Vulcan's eyes fluttered open and he sat up dizzily.

Footsteps echoed closer and closer as Anderson came down the stairs. As he limped through the open door McCoy noticed that he was carrying weapons which were placed well out of everybody's reach.

The door was closed, shutting out all hope.

"Anderson," McCoy muttered disbelievingly. "I never thought you could be capable of this."

"Neither did I. It's amazing what you can achieve when you're truly determined."

"You sound proud," McCoy noticed in revolted astonishment.

Anderson chuckled and McCoy's insides squirmed at the man's insanity. "Oh, I am. I'm finally taking over the family trade, so to speak."

"The London Executioner." Spock had a look of dawning comprehension on his face as he finally put two and two together.

"Yes," Anderson replied contemptuously, turning to face the First Officer. "Slow on the uptake Mister Spock, but you got there."

McCoy's head was spinning as he realized that everything now made so much more sense. "It didn't mention that you were related to him in your file."

Anderson looked as though he wanted to kick the floor in irritation. "Doctor, you surprise me. You are a clever man; why not use those IQ points- unless they're for show on your CV and nothing else."

"You kept it a secret…" McCoy trailed off, unwilling to continue with the man's games.

Anderson applauded him patronizingly, as though humoring a small child. "Well done," he smirked and began to retell the story as he had told Kirk.

Finally, he turned to the stoic Vulcan in anger. "You should have realized; should have connected it with your grandfather's case."

"I was preoccupied with Mister Scott's predicament at the time."

Anderson gave him a savage kick in the stomach. "You and your kind are all the same; you have pathetically one track minds. You had the opportunity to bring up the case of the London Executioner, yet you did not."

"What could I have done?" Spock asked simply.

Anderson stared at him in furious disbelief. "God, your stupid," he spat. "Isn't it obvious?"

"If I had claimed that your grandfather was possessed by a similar entity, the statement would have been ignored."

"You didn't know that for sure."

"It was logical to conclude that it would never have been believed," Spock replied flatly.

Anderson kicked him hard. "Yet still you did not try!"

"He didn't have to," Kirk said, instantly coming to his friend's defense. "Star Fleet barely believed Mr Scott's case; let alone what you're suggesting."

Anderson gave Kirk a vicious back hand that sent the Captain reeling. "I did not ask for your opinion."

"Nevertheless, he is correct." Spock intoned.

Anderson rounded on him once again, fire in his eyes. "You Vulcans just never shut up, do you?"

"The Captain speaks the truth." If McCoy had known that Spock was going to answer back, he would have kicked the Vulcan in the shins. It was just asking for trouble.

"You don't seem to realize that you're proving my point." Anderson growled. Spock gazed back at him innocently.

"What are you going to do to us?" McCoy demanded, when no-one else spoke.

"Leonard, I thought you would never ask. You're going to watch your Vulcan as he is tortured, slowly and painfully."

"You'll be caught; we have back up," McCoy lied swiftly.

"I don't remember Star Fleet Academy running courses on how to lie transparently Leonard, but I am sure that you would have graduated with flying colours."

"I'm not lying."

"Of course you are. If I know that pig headed idiot Mulligan, he would never have helped you. You came here alone."

"There are others looking for us," McCoy insisted.

"What others?" McCoy hesitated. "Ah, you see Leonard; if you want to be believed, don't ever hesitate. It gives you away instantly."

He picked up his knife and twirled it in his fingers. "I'm going to enjoy this."

He moved forward and yanked Spock onto his feet. He cut through the bonds on his legs so that the Vulcan could stand without tripping and then plunged the dagger into his victim's shoulder, twisting it for maximum pain. Spock swayed and Anderson laughed, kicking the helpless man in the stomach and watching as he doubled over, panting weakly.

"Spock!" Kirk bellowed, hating himself for bringing his friends here, however unintentionally.

"Well Vulcan? Aren't you even going to defend yourself? Surely you realize that only you can free James. You are the only one untied, and I'm certainly not going to do it," Anderson taunted.

Spock lifted his bound hands and attempted to nerve pinch Anderson, but his hands met thin air. Anderson laughed and grabbed a club from the floor.

"I've wanted to fight you for a long time, Vulcan. I've wanted to kill you in cold blood for what you never did, for what you failed to do." He swung the club and Spock ducked. "I want you to fight for your life and to feel the futility that my Grandfather felt while he was sitting on the death row. I will kill you with my bare hands."

He lunged once again and Spock was too weak from prolonged mental contact with Kirk's pain to avoid the blow to the ribs. There was a sickening snap as bones broke and he fell to his knees. Anderson raised the club and brought it down, aiming for the Vulcan's head.


	20. Chapter 20

Spock blocked the blow to the head with his arms, wincing as the club struck just above the fractured bone. Gathering all his strength, he tried to wrench the weapon free of Anderson's graps, staggering upright as he did so.

Anderson yelled insults at him and pulled the club free of the Vulcan's hands. He retreated a few steps where he stood poised for battle, while Spock swayed helplessly on the spot. Anderson allowed one foot to carry the majority of his weight and his face had lost all pretense of politeness that he had shown to Kirk. He looked Spock up and down, a mad frenzied look of victory dancing in his crazed blue eyes.

"You're weak, Vulcan. A human failing induced by your human half. Human..." he spat on the floor in disgust. "You have _human_ blood in your _Vulcan_ veins Spock." His expression became furious. "Your mother soiled the reputation of our race by marrying that computer of a Vulcan. You're not fit to lick the boots of any human on the planet."

Spock's eyes tightened and his jaw stiffened at the mention of his mother, but otherwise he gave no reaction. He realized that he was being deliberately goaded into a fight; Anderson wanted the satisfaction of defeating a Vulcan in a rage. His eyes darted to his friends, and in that instant he knew that he was their only hope.

One way or the other he must fight, but he must not allow himself to become so blinded by rage that he allowed himself to be defeated.

"Your human failure to recognize the entity will lead to their deaths. You will be forced to watch after your torture, and then I will kill you." He laughed. "You will feel their deaths in your mind, and your whole world will fall apart, just like mine did. Kirk was a convenient way of making this happen, wouldn't you say?"

Rage began to penetrate the very air around him as he realized that Kirk had been used to lure him here. He would have been kept alive until Spock had arrived, and he should never have come on the rescue mission, if it had meant that Kirk could have lived. He was responsible for this. All of it.

The world upon his shoulders. He suddenly understood what that meant. His eyes sought Kirk's in desperate pleas for forgiveness, and in that split second he was distracted.

That was when Anderson struck.

Blow after blow rained down upon the First Officer, who helplessly tried to shield himself from the merciless onslaught. Each hit from the club brought a further mental pummeling as he fell closer and closer to failing his Captain.

Blinded by pain he crashed to the floor, and all hope of escape smashed upon impact. With one final jerk, he lay still in a limbo between awareness and the black void of unconsciousness.

He had failed.

"No!" Kirk and McCoy both shouted, struggling against their bonds.

"You bastard!" McCoy spat at Anderson.

The words had no effect on the madman, who limped over to Kirk. "It looks like this is good bye." He turned around to stare at the still conscious Vulcan who was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. "Ah good, you're watching. I thought for a moment I'd accidentally killed you too early. I wouldn't want you to come all this way and miss the headline act of the entertainment."

He advanced on the helpless Captain and hovered for a while, knife gleaming in his hand. He aimed it at Kirk's ear as though he were going to cut it off and then at his chest. Finally, he decided on a place just above the heart, where the knife wound would lead to a painful and certain death that would require little help from Anderson.

"You're lucky James; you listened to me when no one else would- so I will make it as quick as possible. Au revoir, mon ami."

"I was never your friend." Kirk growled furiously.

Anderson looked mildly hurt. "Oh…" he shrugged. "Well, you'll die all the same. I was only trying to be _nice_. Funnily enough, you're not the only one who didn't appreciate my efforts at kindness. That family upstairs and their father, " he tipped his head towards the forgotten corpse lying in the corner, "were extremely rude. It made my job much harder since they seemed oddly inclined to struggle continuously."

"You're sick," McCoy growled.

"Anderson chuckled. "I'm afraid that there's no cure. You should know that, Doctor. Now… it's time to operate on your friend here. I'm afraid that the procedure may be a little too… successful."

He raised the knife to stab at Kirk, but it was halted just before it made contact with its victim. Confused, he turned around and received a strong punch in the face from an enraged Spock, who had silently crept up behind him. Anderson's incredulous expression washed like water off of his face and his eyes became glassy. He pitched forward onto his face and Spock made a point of not catching the body as it fell to the floor.

"Thank God," McCoy breathed, gasping.


	21. Chapter 21

Spock moved swiftly towards them and untied both officers, then began tying up Anderson.

McCoy rose gingerly out of his seat, gasping and almost falling as he placed his weight on his abused foot. At the last moment he regained his composure and moved over to Kirk who had yet to stand up.

He placed a hand on the muscled shoulder and was unsurprised to find it shaking as the trauma caught up with the Captain. "Jim, are you alright?"

Kirk's pale face took longer than normal to find his, as the Captain was exhausted after hours of torture. "I'm fine Bones."

McCoy looked extremely skeptical but decided not to press the point. Instead, he helped the Captain to his feet and led the way upstairs while Spock locked Anderson in the room and pocketed the key.

Whilst his attention was distracted, Kirk had decided that he had recovered slightly and had attempted to stand on his own. Alerted by the sudden shift in weight and the stifled moan of the man next to him, McCoy stepped forward and caught Kirk before he hit the ground, wobbling precariously on his own injured foot.

"Steady Jim."

Kirk appeared not to hear him; his face had turned almost ghostly pale and he swayed drunkenly on his feet. Without McCoy there to act as a human crutch, he would almost certainly have collapsed by now.

Entering the trashed living room, McCoy deposited Kirk gently on one of the soft chairs, being extremely careful not to aggravate the Captain's various burns and wounds sustained over the past few hours.

Reassured by the closed eyelids that Kirk was going nowhere, McCoy began checking him over, for the first time wishing that he had his medical equipment with him. When he found that Kirk was only exhausted and had no imminently dangerous injuries, McCoy left him to rest and turned around, expecting to see Spock hovering worriedly over his shoulder as he normally did.

The Vulcan was nowhere to be seen. Worried, McCoy decided that it was safe to leave Kirk, and hobbled into the next room to look for Spock, the gruesome beating at Anderson's hands flashing in front of his eyes even as he searched.

The First Officer in question was contacting the emergency services, requesting an ambulance for Kirk and a police car for Anderson. McCoy leaned towards the channel and ordered a second stretcher.

Spock gazed at him quizzically once the transmission had finished. Ignoring the piercing eyes, McCoy examined the Vulcan before him, his keen physician's eyes noticing the blood stains on the bright blue shirt.

"A second stretcher, Doctor?" The Vulcan's tone was ominous, and he sounded faintly annoyed that the Doctor continued his ministrations even as he debated McCoy's decision.

McCoy nodded. "It's for you; you took quite a beating in there."

"I do not require a stretcher," Spock retorted, his voice strong with conviction. After a moment of unbelieving silence from McCoy, he gave a barely detectable sigh and changed the direction of the conversation. "What is the Captain's status?"

"He'll be alright; a few burns from the taser and bruises but nothing serious. It's you that I'm more worried about at the moment," he added.

"As I stated earlier, I am functional."

McCoy leaned back and crossed his arms, surveying the Vulcan in annoyance. "Oh really?" He drawled. "When are you going to learn to let me fix your injuries before they incapacitate you completely? I'm a doctor, Spock, how is it logical to stop me from doing my job when the danger is over and help is on the way?"

For a moment the Vulcan did not answer, but then raised an eyebrow and stood slowly, swaying from side to side dangerously. He appeared not to notice his show of weakness. "I am in no danger of being 'incapacitated', Doctor," Spock said icily, and as if to prove his statement he took a tottering step. Faint surprise registered on his face as his legs buckled and he found McCoy supporting him.

Muttering to himself, McCoy helped Spock back into the previous room and placed him on a chair near Kirk. "Of course, you're in perfect health," he drawled sarcastically and received a decidedly un-Vulcan glare as a response.

McCoy treated both men's injuries, making sure that they were well tended to before he even considered treating himself. His foot and shoulder were by now painfully swollen and required treatment, but there were no further supplies. He did not even have the strength to use material around the room for bandages, although they were too dirty to be serviceable in any case.

Mind numbed by pain and the exhaustion of the last few hours, he was driven to a chair and slumped into it wearily. His injuries were painful, but they would have to wait…

The wail of sirens jerked him from his semi-conscious state and he tried in vain to get up. Through swimming vision he saw medics rushing in with stretchers, several going immediately to Kirk and Spock.

His own medic hovered over him, murmuring unintelligibly. He simply frowned at them in confusion, watching curiously as the man's twin double stepped out from behind him and they stood side by side, almost merging into each other. He blinked and the twin was replaced by spots. He was passing out from blood loss.

Weakly, he managed to force his mouth to co-operate partially. "Basement…"

The man looked confused. "What's in the basement?"

"Anderson… murderer…" Darkness swept him away.

The medic stared down at the famous figure of Doctor McCoy for a while before ordering for him to be taken to hospital. He collected a few policemen with a gesture and found the basement.

The door was locked but a few strong men managed to kick it open. Immediately the stench of death and blood washed over him, making him gag unexpectedly.

Tied up, his face smeared with blood from a severely broken nose, Anderson grinned to himself manically at the prospect of telling his grandfather's story to the jury himself. They would listen to him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"I want to see Mulligan."

The receptionist looked confused. "Who?"

"Mulligan, he works here. He was in charge of the Anderson case."

She consulted her computer briefly. "He doesn't have a record on here, but I think I saw him down there." She pointed down the hall, and McCoy limped off with Kirk and Spock trailing dubiously behind him.

It was a few weeks since their ordeal and all three men were well on their way to recovery, although some evidence of their injuries remained. The Enterprise had been detained during Anderson's trial so that evidence could be given against him, and to allow the senior officers time to recover before the next taxing mission.

"Bones…" Kirk sounded unsure of what they were about to do.

"Damn it Jim! We have to go in there- he nearly got us killed with his damn incompetence!"

"In all fairness, you shouldn't have come alone…" Kirk trailed off as he realized just what exactly he was saying.

McCoy rounded on him in a furious instant. "Are you _defending_ him? _We_ rescued you Jim! He didn't offer any help!"

Kirk raised his hands to try to placate the livid surgeon. "No… I was just pointing out that…" he trailed off as Spock tactfully cleared his throat in warning.

"Yes?" McCoy demanded.

"Never mind," Kirk said, backpedalling quickly, "save your anger for Mulligan."

Eyes narrowed, McCoy stalked into the officer's room, surprised to see that a different nameplate occupied the space where Mulligan's had been. He smiled for a moment in grim satisfaction.

Mulligan looked up from packing his things. "What's going on here?"

McCoy advanced upon the man as fast as he could, fists clenched tightly by his sides. "I'm glad to see that your management came to their senses."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're incompetence nearly cost us our lives." McCoy spat angrily.

"That appears to be why he is leaving his job."

"You and your Vulcan sarcasm had better stay out of this Spock," McCoy hissed menacingly. He eyed the room with relish. "So you finally got sacked."

"Actually, I'm resigning."

"Is that so you'd avoid the humiliation of being made redundant?" McCoy questioned mercilessly. "Are you trying to preserve a small shred of your imaginary dignity?"

"I won't be talked to like that," Mulligan all but shouted, turning puce with rage. "Get out of my office!"

"Apparently this is no longer your office." Spock pointed out.

"It is for the next twenty minutes. Out!"

"We're not moving," McCoy said with quiet menace. "Do you know why we're here?"

"I…"

McCoy interrupted him, unaware of the affect he was having on the intimidated man before him. "Your inaction and bullheadedness was unacceptable! I've seen Cardassian _mushrooms_ do better!"

Mulligan drew himself up with unrighteous indignation. "Doctor, _you_ were the one that decided to go… galloping off on some wild crusade without back up."

"It would not have been necessary, had you provided the necessary reinforcements, as is your obligation as a member of this department," Spock chipped in.

McCoy glared at him for interrupting and the Vulcan dutifully closed his mouth, deciding that it would be illogical to further provoke the Doctor. "That '_wild goose chase'_ just so happened to be more accurate than your so called 'experienced strategies'."

Mulligan sputtered hopelessly for a moment. "I thought I told you to get out," He said eventually, in a pathetically small voice.

McCoy was not deterred. "The _least_ you could have done was to at least _consider_ our theory. We were part of the investigation and you had no right to just dismiss our information with a wave of your hand!"

"I was within my rights."

"We were still a part of the investigation, not a novelty act that you could just choose to ignore."

Mulligan looked them up and down arrogantly, some of his bravado returning. "I still don't see why you were included in the first place."

McCoy rolled his eyes, by now beyond incensed. "You might not see why, but we did a damn better job than you did." He could practically feel the blood pressure rising and steam coming out of his ears. "We were there to help, and as it turned out- you needed it!"

"It would have been disgraceful for me to accept help from a group of amateurs."

"So I suppose you would have been happy slowly plodding along and getting nowhere, allowing Anderson to slaughter everybody around? At least that way, no one would be alive to remember your mistakes."

Mulligan raised his chin at McCoy haughtily. "I'd do the same again if it came to it."

"You're unbelievable."

"I fail to see why you persist in your claim that your actions were correct, when clearly they were not."

Mulligan looked Spock up and down in contempt. "Then you obviously don't understand my job, _Mister_ Spock."

McCoy gestured at the box of belongings. "Apparently, it's you that doesn't understand the job."

"I'm _resigning_," Mulligan emphasized, "not being sacked!"

"In the public eye, it's the same thing," Kirk shrugged.

"Plenty of other in my position would have done the same thing I did."

McCoy's tone became furiously sarcastic, hatred dripping from every word. The Doctor could be formidable when he had to be. "Well then, with people like you around it's a wonder there are any criminal left. Clearly, doing whatever was necessary to catch a killer is above you."

"I _did_ do whatever was necessary," Mulligan growled, losing control fast.

McCoy moved ominously close to Mulligan. "Then tell me, _Sergeant_, why you didn't find him."

"He must have moved at the last minute. We were close to getting him."

"Moved at the last minute…" McCoy sputtered incredulously. "You can't be stupid enough to believe that!" The officer's face suggested that he was.

"Anderson never moved around," Kirk said. "He was in the same place for the entire search."

"No one would be that stupid."

McCoy snorted. "With officers like you on the force, who would need to be?"

"You over estimate criminal intelligence."

Finally, McCoy's self control evaporated and he moved to lunge at the clueless man. A voice sounded from the doorway and McCoy reluctantly gave up the idea of beating Mulligan to a pulp to turn around and face his boss instead.

"Well Mulligan, normally I'd allow Doctor McCoy to punch your lights out, but you're still on my property. I don't want blood all over the office." She looked at McCoy. "Doctor, I suggest that you leave before you do something that you will seriously regret."

McCoy scowled. "Hell, I'd _never_ regret what I was going to do." However, in the greatest demonstration of will power and restraint of the month, he resisted the churning anger and stalked out into the corridor.

Grinning, Kirk slapped him on the back. "Great performance, Bones."

"I concur. He appeared most intimidated," Spock agreed. "I found the scene… fascinating… to say the least.


	22. Epilogue

The suicide watch; the perfect place in prison if you didn't want any privacy. Hardened criminals like him were jammed in here by the authorities when they were needed alive. The process was enforced to protect the dangerous inmates both from themselves and from each other, but for most of them here, suicide would be a welcome escape.

He had just received a life sentence and his appeal for his Grand father's name to be cleared had been denied. There was no justice in the universe, no matter how much life forms progressed. No matter how civilized they could become, there would always be people so blinded by hatred that they would readily deny the truth and corrupt the system. Why could they not realize the truth? The London Executioner might have killed many people, but he had been possessed and had genuinely believed that he was freeing his victims of their worldly bounds. Setting their spirits free. Yet no one understood, or even attempted to understand.

Sitting on the hard prison bed, he half wished that his guard outside would just shoot him down to put him out of his misery. His captives had been whisked away in an ambulance instead of the hearses they deserved, and the world thought he was a monster. He was not a monster- just misunderstood.

He was despicable. He was human dirt. People would ground him into dust given half a chance. Whoever had said that people were compassionate had never been in his position.

Sometimes it crossed his mind that if he was out in the open he would be brutally attacked. The prison bars kept the public out, protected him. Yet at the same time they were destroying his life. He had once been a popular man, but now even the rapists and terrorists spat on him and kicked him while the guards watched the fun. Some had bet on how long he would survive here, and he felt joy in cheating them of their money. He had scraped by four weeks in this hell hole, more than any of them could ever have expected.

A bird fluttered past the window and his hand shot out to catch it, but it escaped and danced just out of reach of his finger tips. Mocking him. He wanted to wring its feathered neck and rip it to pieces. That would stop the damn chirruping.

Sunlight streamed into his eyes and he winced in pain, retreating into the dark and gloomy confines of his cell. The blissfully care free days when he had waltzed around alien planets was gone, snapped away by the sharp and unremorseful claws of the justice system. Instead he was caged like an animal, tortured endlessly by silence and the knowledge that his life was flying by before his very eyes. 'silence is golden'- what a joke. He'd give anything to hear the roar of traffic and heavy thumping of his favorite music.

He kicked a bar of his cell in frustration and ripped his pillow in two. Feathers fluttered around him and muddied his hair. He smiled sadistically as he pictured row upon row of cold featherless birds. Dead or alive, it didn't matter- they had deserved it. He kicked the bar again and again while in his mind's eye he was smashing his former First Officer's skull to pieces.

A guard looked up from his newspaper and stared at him disinterestedly. His foot snapped inside his flimsy shoe, and only then did the guard finally act.

"Hey Anderson!" He had to bellow above the ringing and swearing produced by the deranged man. "Would you stop? You've broken your foot."

He paused and glared at the man before him. "It's my foot and I'll do whatever the hell I like with it." All of the polite façade had by now disappeared. "If you want to stop me, then you can get in here and do it."

The man shrugged and returned to his newspaper. He didn't give damn about Anderson, only his pay check. Anderson could slit his throat and everyone would rejoice. He sighed and paced the room.

Life meant little to him now. He had failed and he had to carry that knowledge on his shoulders every day. Even more disturbing were the hallucinations.

Every so often the room would turn dark and the water would become blood. A guard would have a decomposed face and would shuffle about with his hands raised to keep his brain from dropping out.

He looked down at the floor and saw a glistening red path behind him like the trail of a slug. At first he thought that the visions had returned, but he was reminded with a dizzying jolt that he had broken his foot.

His hands hovered at his laces as he considered whether or not to take the thing off. With a final shrug he ripped the shoe off of his limb and was rewarded with the satisfying grounding of bone against bone. Blood poured from the wound slowly, like a magical fountain.

On the edge of his consciousness he heard a shout and saw a medic running in. their hands pounded on his foot and he tried to kick the parasitical fingers away.

"Stay still!" The frantic man yelled at him.

Laughing, he struggled more and felt a further rush of blood dumped onto the floor. To him it was a swirling pool of life.

To his disappointment his foot was soon bandaged and the blood flow had stopped. He was alone in the cell. For a while he stared chuckling at the pool of beautiful crimson liquid. Gritting his teeth against dizziness he bent and stuck his finger into the rapidly congealing puddle.

The iron smell wafted intoxicatingly into his nostrils and he remembered how he had enjoyed painting with the blood of his victims. He howled and drew two lines onto his face, brought back to the cowboy and Indian days of his childhood. He had always been the cowboy, now he was the Indian.

A pattern swirled beneath his fingers on the wall before he realized what it was that he had written. A farewell message. The London Executioner will be avenged, he wrote. Then he drew a portrait and stepped back to admire his work.

Spock stared at him out of the wall, his features twisted and hard with cruelty. The Vulcan should have understood.

Yelling, he stabbed at the picture again and again so that red blood ran out of the Vulcan's face. He was still recognizable to anyone who looked.

His eyes fell on the sheets in front of him and he had a sudden burst of inspiration. A voice teased the edge of his mind, muttering something incomprehensible and then laughing. He laughed with it, the two voices ringing in his ears.

His hands shook with glorious anticipation as he grabbed the sheets and deposited them in the centre of the room. He looked up, checking the ceiling to see if it was there, and it was.

Delighted, he limped back to his bed and skidded over the blood. The government had wanted his blood, and he had given it to them sooner than they expected. They wanted him to rot in prison and he would, but he would do it with style. His eyes gleamed with childlike amusement at the prospect of his latest victory.

Grunting, he shifted the bed inch by inch across the concrete floor, not even noticing as his foot throbbed with pain. The grating sound of metal filled the room and the guard looked up dozily. He considered stopping Anderson for a moment, but soon dismissed the thought. He was too lazy to pretend to be doing his job.

He tied the sheets together and stood on the bed which he had correctly positioned. His life did not even flash before his eyes as he looped the make shift rope over the strong beam in the ceiling.

The guard finally looked up. "What are you doing?"

He laughed again. Such a moronic question coming from an idiotic man. His grandfather was denied justice and so was he, but unlike his grandfather, he was unwilling to pay the price. He would do what needed to be done.

He was doing this for both of them. He was stepping into his grand father's shoes. Picking up where he had left off. The London Executioner had tortured people so that they could fully appreciate the peace of death.

His mission to clear the dead man's name had tortured him and ruined his life, and he was a loose end. He was alive and no one was here to finish him off, so he would do it himself.

He sang the death march under his breath with glee, his voice elated with happiness, and put the noose around his neck. He tugged his line to Heaven to see if it was secure. It could not fail and cause him to tumble back into his own personal hell. He giggled at his own joke.

The guard had leapt to his feet at last but confusion had frozen him in place. This time, the question was rhetorical as anyone could deduce what his intentions were.

"What are you doing?" The guard sounded terrified.

Of course, this was suicide watch and if a prisoner died under his shift he would lose his pay and his job. He stood there dumbstruck, watching his career go down the drain, his only chance at redemption the key that dangled on his belt. The key was forgotten. It was a bonus that one more life would be ruined as he died.

"I'm tying up the loose ends," he replied.

His maniacal laugh cut off as he jumped.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fin.


End file.
